


Голубka [My Dove]

by TwinKats



Series: CapKink Fills [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, NEEDS MORE PROMPT DAMMIT, capkink prompt, eventual capbuck, like omg the movie made me fall apart, maybe? - Freeform, or prompt, probably slow burn, should have more capkink responses, winter soldier has a crush, with sweet nothings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1477429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwinKats/pseuds/TwinKats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: For some reason Steve keeps running into the familiar face of the Winter Soldier. Each new time heralds a mission gone wrong, and yet, Steve can't help but be baffled. Is the Soldier his enemy? Or friend? /Capkink response/ AU TWS [SPOILERS]</p><p>Response to Capkink prompt: http://capkink.dreamwidth.org/1349.html?thread=42053#cmt42053</p><p>Prompt is basically Winter Soldier has a crush on Steve Rogers and whispers Russian pet names to his confusion. Natasha finds it funny.</p><p>ALSO BEWARE CRAPPY GOOGLE TRANSLATE RUSSIAN. <b>IF YOU KNOW RUSSIAN, ANY RUSSIAN, AND CAN HELP FIX THE SHITTY GOOGLE TRANSLATIONS, I WILL LOVE YOU FOREVER.</b> And please, someone tell me if my title's all fucked now? I'm getting mixed signals here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THERE MAY OR MAY NOT BE AN ISSUE WITH THE TITLE OF THIS STORY. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS APPROPRIATE. IS IT голубь? OR голубka? SERIOUSLY. I'M CONFUSED.
> 
> Foreign words are translated in a tooltip, hover over to see what they mean!
> 
> IF YOU KNOW RUSSIAN AND ARE WILLING TO HELP A POOR, POOR, IGNORANT AMERICAN FIX HER SHITTY GOOGLE TRANSLATE NONSENSE, AND MAYBE PROVIDE HER WITH PLAUSIBLE RUSSIAN PET NAMES, YOU WILL BE FOREVER LOVED.
> 
> Thank you to SDCDCI for the help you've provided in the meantime.
> 
> SERIOUSLY. HELP.

Steve waited for the other shoe to drop. He knew that no mission ever went successfully, no mission survived contact, and so he waited, crouched with his sights trained on the bridge. The receiver he pinned, unaware to Batroc and whomever else he had up there, let him know all he needed. Steve licked his lips. They should be in position now, and ready to strike at any moment.

“Natasha?” he asked into his wrist. Steve almost winced at the loud reply. Five seconds later they were on the move, plan still in play. At least until Natasha missed the rendezvous point, _'and there went the other shoe,'_ Steve thought with a grimace. Steve had to find her, feasibly before Batroc, or find Batroc before finding her.

“Well, this is awkward,” Natasha said.

Steve didn't expect to find one right after the other at the tail end of kicking Batroc down. Natasha glanced at him, gave a coy little smile, and the shoes kept dropping. One right after the other. Steve wanted to punch something, maybe that would make this day go a bit better. He glanced down to Batroc, out cold, and then sighed. No, punching things did not make this day go any better.

“What the hell are you doing?” Steve demanded.

“Backing up the harddrive,” Natasha replied with a smile. “It's a good habit to get into.”

“Rumlow needed your help, what the hell are you doing here?” He looked over the screen, his eyes widened in surprise. “You're saving SHIELD intel.”

“Whatever I can get my hands on,” Natasha said, gaze intent on the screen before her.

“Our mission is to rescue hostages,” Steve said sharply, a reprimand that he felt Natasha needed. He knew how loyal she was to SHIELD but to jeopardize the mission like this?

“No, that's your mission,” Natasha told him, her lips quirked up in that way they always did when she felt amused by something. Steve clenched his fist. “And you did it beautifully.”

For the first time in a while Steve actually wanted to punch a woman. Something about Natasha made his blood boil. He knew, _he knew_ , she could be so much better than this. That _Fury_ could be so much better than this. Did Steve not prove himself trustworthy to them? Sure he had a rather strong moral fiber but that moral fiber could be flexible as needed. Just not much.

Actually maybe Steve could understand their cards being held close to the chest. A part of himself wanted to just grab his head and stop thinking in circles, the other wanted to punch some sense into Natasha, and then into Fury. He didn't.

“You just jeopardized this whole operation,” Steve snapped, grabbing hold of her arm. He restrained himself from squeezing too hard, he didn't want to hurt her, just perhaps make his point. This doesn't fly when he's running things. At all.

“I think that's overstating things,” Natasha said calmly. Next second either of them knew Batroc was up and on his feet and Steve had his shield up to deflect a grenade. They dodged right, through some glass, then down, and then the world erupted into fire and smoke.

Steve's ears were ringing and he felt fairly assured that there was glass stabbed into him somewhere. He leaned back against the wall, tried to ignore the fire and the heat around them, the remains of the exploded grenade, and catch his breath. Natasha looked at him, turned her head, and gave him a sheepish sort of smile.

“Okay, that one's on me,” she said breathlessly. Steve scowled. He pushed himself up, using his Shield as a crutch, trying to ignore the bruises he'll probably have after all this.

“Damn right it is,” he snapped, and staggered his way out of the mainframe? Computer room? Steve couldn't be sure what this place was called, aside from that it now rested in broken bits and burned hardware. Behind him Natasha staggered along, quiet.

 _'Good,'_ Steve thought. _'I got through to her.'_ A small part of himself felt guilty. Natasha was just doing her job. However the hurt and betrayed part, the part that felt like Natasha didn't trust him _after all they had been through_ felt vindictive and Steve decided to revel in that instead of the guilt. He had enough guilt to last a lifetime.

Both Natasha and Steve staggered out onto the deck and prepared to make their way towards the rendezvous point where the jet would pick them up. Their eyes both watered as the cool air hit and they passed through the smoke and fire out onto the deck. Steve raised a hand to clear his vision, and sucked in fresh breaths of air.

“ебать!”

The words rang out and echoed around the abandoned deck. Natasha paled, and Steve had to squint to see what had caught her attention at first before it became apparent that they weren't alone. Natasha hadn't been the one to swear, in fact, but rather a man with a shiny metal arm? Steve blinked.

“You know,” he said offhandedly, “the twenty-first century is just ridiculously weird.”

“Steve,” Natasha hissed, “shut up.” Steve frowned, straightened up, and tightened his grip on his shield.

“You know him?” he asked, under his breath. The stranger looked familiar, but Steve couldn't place where. Perhaps he was a SHIELD agent?

“Not in a good way,” Natasha said. “We have to run.”

“Why?”

Her face was blank, serious, as Natasha turned to look at Steve. “Because he makes me look like a wet kitten.”

Steve frowned, his grip tightened further on his shield, but he nodded. Sometimes retreat was the best option, especially when your dangerously attractive assassin coworker happens to be terrified.

“Not SHIELD then?” Steve asked as he prepared to run.

“Not by a long shot,” Natasha shook her head. She kept her gaze turned towards the man who held a gun loosely at his side. He seemed to be stuck in some sort of internal debate for a second, before his gaze sharpened on Natasha and Steve. His eyes narrowed. Steve could barely make them out through the black paint that surrounded them. Neither could see his mouth, or anything below his eyes, as it was wrapped in a mask of some sort.

One second they were staring at each other, tense, and the next Natasha was running with a sharp command from Steve and the stranger was raising his gun to fire. Steve quickly raised his shield and then tossed it. The stranger's eyes widened for a second, and then he turned, sharply to dodge the dangerous metallic frisbee, losing sight of Natasha. The shield bounced off of the wall behind the leather decked stranger and made its way back to Steve who grasped it and raised it just in time to deflect a hail of bullets.

Steve rushed forward, keeping the shield up to save himself from becoming swiss Steve ala machine gun—Gods he must be out of his mind right now if he's cracking jokes in his own head like this. Granted Bucky used to say much worse in more dire situations. Steve grimaced.

 _'Focus,'_ he told himself.

He slapped the gun away with the shield and slammed his palm out towards the strangers head, only to have it deflected by the metallic arm, and then having to block a sudden raised knee which Steve followed with a kick which was caught. He let out a grunt of pain, and then surprise as the stranger tossed him one armed by his leg. Steve barely had time to dodge as the stranger raced at him, denting the wall with his fist, followed by a swipe with a knife. Steve blocked the arm with his forearm and braced himself against the wall before slamming his foot into the others chest.

The stranger staggered back, but his eyes remained focus. He flipped the blade and darted towards Steve again, which Steve dodged left, then ducked, and then delivered an uppercut and a sharp downward kick to the others knee. He went down with a sharp yell, and Steve ran. He couldn't be sure that whosoever that was hadn't brought friends along, and while Natasha could take care of herself, her phrasing had him worried.

Steve barely registered Batroc's body as he ducked under railing, dodging bullets as best he was able—one nicked his shoulder—while cursing how south this operation went. It was only when he was safely in the plane, with Natasha beside him healthy and whole, and flying back to the Triskelion did Steve breath a sigh of relief.

He _hated_ when the other shoe dropped, because it always dropped _hard_ and was never alone.

* * *

The Winter Soldier stalked through the familiar halls and gates, surrounded by at least four armed men at any given time. This was a place he was most intimately familiar with, the only place in his memories that held any clarity. The men escorted him into the deepest, most secured reaches of the building that had _his_ chair, one of the few things he could scarcely call _his_ at least. The Soldier sat down, rested his arms on his knees, and waited.

Two scientists stepped into the room, nervous, hesitant. There was a sharp command in Russian, an order to strip off his armor. The Soldier stood and began to undo the buckles and snaps, pealing away layer by layer the protective leather and kevlar top. He sat back down onto the chair, now bare chested.

One scientist injected him with something to keep him calm, the other went about servicing his arm, making sure it was in working condition still until whomever held the Soldier's leash came in for a report. Blue-green eyes darted around the room, taking in the familiarity as his mind hazed over slightly. Soon enough they'd go through the same procedure as always and he'd be put back on ice until they needed him again. It was the same after every mission, a routine he knew by heart.

The Soldier came back to himself at the sound of a scraping chair. He glanced to his side to find the scientist checking the mechanics of his arm gone, and then looked in front to see his master before him.

“Tell me what happened,” Pierce said with a congenial smile. The Soldier frowned momentarily, he had to remember that this was how this particular one asked for a report most days. The phrasing always threw him off at first.

“Mission failed,” he said after a minute, licking his lips in (nervous?) anticipation of what would come next.

“Explain,” Pierce demanded, leaning back into his chair.

“By the time I arrived the databanks were destroyed,” the Soldier said. “Nothing could be salvaged.”

“Who destroyed them?” Pierce demanded. “How where they destroyed?”

The Soldier licked his lips again. “Pattern of debris suggests some sort of high intensive explosive device, such as a grenade. Two enemy combatants were inside.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes, “Which combatants?”

“Subject: Black Widow,” Soldier recited, then frowned, “and...some guy in...blue.”

Pierce scowled. “You didn't recognize him?”

“No.”

Pierce nodded and got to his feet. He gestured towards the chair and one of the armed men tugged it back into its original place.

“Very well then,” he said with a sigh. “You know what the price of failure is.”

“Yes.”

Pierce nodded, then motioned towards the armed men.

“I'll leave you to it, boys,” he said, and left the room.

The Soldier grimaced. He wasn't going to like this.

* * *

Steve and Natasha by some unspoken agreement didn't mention the stranger they encountered on their way back to the rendezvous point, or through the entire flight back to the Triskelion. Once they'd touched down Rumlow gave a nod and grin to the assassin and soldier before he and the Strike team headed off to disarm and debrief. Natasha and Steve went the opposite direction, heading for the direct elevator that lead to Fury's office.

“Director's office,” Natasha said as they stepped into the glass box. The computer chimed its agreement and she settled next to Steve, arms crossed, against the railing.

“You going to tell me who that was?” Steve asked, glancing down at her. Natasha grimaced and took a deep breath.

“The Winter Soldier,” she said. “He's a ghost story to the intelligence community. Credited with over a two dozen assassinations in the past fifty years.”

“You know him,” Steve pointed out. “He's not just a ghost story.” Natasha ducked her head. She wasn't sure what to say, exactly, before eventually she sighed.

“Five years ago I was escorting an engineer out of Iran when somebody shot out my tires near Odessa,” Natasha said softly. “We lost control, went straight over a cliff, I pulled us out. He was there.” Her arms tightened around her torso with a grimace. “I was covering my engineer so he shot him straight through me.” She raised her head to stare at Steve.

“There's something your not telling me,” Steve said, his eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

“We have to inform Fury,” Natasha said eventually. “If the Soldier is active then things are about to get a lot more lively.”

“You're dodging the question,” Steve pointed out. The elevator came to a stop, the door opened. Natasha paused on her way out, Steve on her heels.

“It's personal, Steve,” she said after a moment. “I'll tell you when I'm ready.”

Steve frowned, but nodded in acknowledgment. At least it was something more than she had given him last time. They both made their way down the short hall towards Fury's office. Steve had only been in here a handful of times, mostly to show how annoyed he was at pertinent information being kept from him in regards to a mission he'd been put on. This time things were a little different.

“Romanoff, Rogers,” Fury stood up, surprised. “To what do I owe this...visit?”

Natasha wasted no time. She walked right up to Fury and dropped the drive onto his desk. Here she leaned over, planted her hands firmly down and looked at Fury seriously.

“We have as big problem, Nick,” she said. “The Winter Soldier is active.”

Fury swiped up the drive, his gaze darting between Natasha and Steve. He frowned.

“Explain,” he said, licking his lips.

“Well, after Natasha finished her data mining for you,” Steve said, hands on his belt. Fury opened his mouth but Steve shook his head, “I'll get to that later, Fury,” he interrupted. “We were headed to the rendezvous point when we were waylaid by a man with a metal arm speaking Russian.”

Fury's frown deepened. “Was he working with Batroc?”

“Considering I stumbled across Batroc's corpse on my way out, I think that's unlikely,” Steve pointed out.

Fury looked to Natasha. “You're sure it was him, Natasha.”

Natasha backed up, crossed her arms, and stared at Fury. Steve noted how similar their gazes were, deadly serious, slightly terrified.

“Yes,” Natasha said. “I am sure.”

Fury cursed. “Fuck!” He slammed his fist down onto the table, glanced between both Natasha and Steve, and cursed again. He looked to the drive. “Did you get everything?” he asked, once more at Natasha.

“Before the room exploded, yeah,” Natasha nodded.

“Exploded?” Nick snapped.

“A calculated mistake,” Natasha said with a smile, before frowning. “Nick, whatever is on that drive, I think the Soldier wanted it.”

Steve scoffed. “You think?” he asked with a faint roll of his eyes. “Can somebody tell me what exactly is going on here? What is on that drive, Nick?” Nick grimaced. “What is so important some assassin working for who knows wanted to get it out from under your nose.”

Fury sighed. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sat down.

“I think,” Natasha said softly, “you should bring him in, Nick.” Nick glanced at her, and then down at the table, and sighed.

“Very well then,” he said. “Secure office.”

The lights dimmed, the doors locked shut, and the windows to the outside grew black. Nick looked to Steve.

“This stays between us, am I clear?” Nick said coolly. Steve looked at him, and then nodded once.

“Crystal, sir.”

Nick nodded. “Bring up files for Project Insight.”

_Rogers, Steven does not have clearance for Project Insight._

“Director Override, Fury, Nicholas J,” Fury said, moving around the desk. He leaned against its edge as the files and blueprints washed across the screen. Steve looked between the files, Nick, and Natasha who was scowling.

“What the hell is this?” Steve asked. Nick sighed.

“Project Insight,” Nick said calmly. “After New York I advised the World Security Council that we needed a current insurgent threat analysis. The result was Project Insight, three next gen Hellicarriers linked to a satellite network that can read a terrorists biodata before he even steps out the door, able to eliminate a few thousand threats a minute.” Nick waved his hand and specs for the gun array made its way onto the screen.

Steve frowned. “This sounds like HYDRA.”

Nick grimaced. “I know.”

Steve turned sharply, his mouth opened to tear into Nick. Nick just raised his hand.

“I did my research, Captain, when we were thawing you out. I read what Carter had to say on HYDRA and their plans,” Nick motioned towards the screen. “Insight is right up HYDRA's ally, and the best part? It's coming from SHIELD.”

“But HYDRA's dead, destroyed,” Steve shook his head. “I utterly decimated them.”

Natasha shook her head and pursed her lips. “HYDRA had fingers in a lot more pies than just Nazi Germany,” she said, glancing to Nick. Nick sighed.

“Bring up all files flagged CA-001,” Nick said sharply, and instantly numerous files slid across the screen. Steve practically paled.

“These are all...HYDRA?” he asked, weakly.

“Suspected,” Nick groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Can you see why I hadn't said a word?”

Natasha stepped up to Steve, gnawing on her lip, “Steve...these are SHIELD ops. SHIELD ops doing work that SHIELD doesn't do. They wave SHIELD's flag, use SHIELD's name, but aren't approved through the Directors office.”

Steve shook his head. “Your saying SHIELD is HYDRA?”

Nick scoffed. “The hell it is!” he snapped. “I've put too much work into this for it to become HYDRA on my watch. Look, Rogers, the corruption goes deep, I'll give you that. It's in some of the top brass, and the worst part? It's practically got a stranglehold on us, but it does not _own_ us. We just need to clean out the rot.”

“How long have you known?” Steve asked, turning away from the files. “How long have you suspected?”

Nick sighed. “I've suspected since New York. Known? That's what Natasha's mission was about.” He raised the thumb drive. “The Lumarian Star's job was to launch Insight's satellite network, and upload the required data to make it work. The data Natasha recovered.”

Nick moved back around his desk and plugged in the drive. He turned to face the screens at the far end of his office.

“Open Lumarian Star launch file,” he said clearly.

Natasha and Steve watched as the computer scrolled to find the launch file data, only to signal bright red _Access Denied._ Nick frowned.

“Run Decryption.”

A wheel spun around, words Steve couldn't understand and Natasha could barely keep up with. Seconds later it signaled _Decryption Failed._

“Director Override, Fury, Nicholas J.,” Nick said sharply. He moved around his desk now, his entire framed edged in frustration and wariness. Steve swallowed reflexively as Natasha shifted from one foot to another.

_Override denied, all files sealed._

Steve's brow furrowed and he glanced to Natasha. 'Sealed?' he mouthed and she grimaced and shook her head.

“On whose authority?” Nick demanded.

_Fury, Nicholas J._

“Shit,” Nick cursed, moving back around his desk and removing the drive from his computer. “Shit.”

“Nick?” Natasha asked. “What the hell does that mean?”

Steve scowled, “I think it's pretty clear what that means.” He stepped up to Nick, slapped his palms onto the desk, and stared down at the other man.

“Rogers....” Nick said slowly, a warning as his hand gripped the gun hidden underneath his desk.

“HYDRA has the ability to spoof your command, and lock you out,” Steve said coldly. “You've lost control of SHIELD.”

Nick closed his eyes.

“Agent Romanoff, recall Agent Barton, deep shadow conditions,” he said sharply. He tossed the drive at her. “Get a hold of Stark and have him decrypt those files. We have a limited window in which we can act before HYDRA gets suspicious. Captain...”

Steve stepped back, sliding into attention with a blank face. “Orders, sir?”

“You are to escort me to a secure off-base location,” Nick said, breathing out slowly. “If the Winter Soldier is active, I'm going to need all the back up I can get. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir.”

“Romanoff, join us in the parking garage as soon as you've contacted Barton and Stark,” Nick added.

“On it, sir,” Natasha nodded and slipped from the room as Nick released the security on the office. Nick sighed and slumped into his chair.

“We'll make it right, Nick,” Steve said. He didn't bother to add in the 'you should have told me's or 'I could have told you's that he wanted to. The situation made itself apparent enough, and Steve could understand in some way that Nick wanted to spare him the thought that his entire mission, his entire life's work that ended with him frozen in the Arctic, was for nothing. Steve clenched his fist. “We'll get HYDRA out of SHIELD.”

“The problem is, Steve, we don't know who is HYDRA and who isn't,” Nick said wearily.

“Coulson's not HYDRA,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah but Coulson's—how do you know about that?” Nick stood to his feet, eyes narrowed. Steve quirked his lips.

“While I don't know the details, Stark said something about how it'd ruin my faith in humanity, I am aware he's alive.” Steve paused, then added, “I do have level 8 clearance, Nick.” Nick scowled.

“Well I can't just recall Coulson, he's doing good work,” he said. “Although...perhaps leaving a message might be for the best. Get them to ground and working on negating as much of HYDRA's influence as they can.” He glanced to Steve and then added, “Covertly.”

Steve smiled.

* * *

The Soldier pulled himself upright, or as upright as he was able to get with a cracked femur which was honestly just sitting, leaning against the wall. His mouth was a bloodied mess, and there were one or two bruises alongside his face, a few burns to add to the multitude of scars on his torso, bruises, and sluggishly bleeding wounds. The only clothing he had on him, his dark black BDU styled pants, hung loosely at his hips with rips and tears from where a knife had been used to either stab or, supposedly, frighten.

None of that mattered, though, as Pierce stepped through the doorway with a manila folder in hand. The Soldier grimaced, or grinned, it was hard to tell on his face these days since emotions were tricky, human things that he wasn't at luxury of having much of anymore. The look about him gave mind to a feral animal of some sorts, and had Pierce smiling almost indulgently, like at a rabid dog or pet of some sort.

“Your mission,” he said, tossing the manila folder to the Soldier who grabbed it with his left hand. He thumbed through the papers. “Observe until your healed and report back everything of note.” The phrasing confused him. Was he meant to determine what was of 'note'? What even did 'note' mean? His brow furrowed. “Once you are in top condition, I want death confirmed in ten hours. Understood?”

“да,” the Soldier replied. Pierce scowled.

“English,” he chided. “Or do you need another lesson?”

The Soldier grimaced and said, “No. No lesson. I understand the parameters of the mission.” The words felt thick on his tongue, thicker than they had when he first reported in. Maybe that had to do with the side of his face swelling, though, so he put it out of mind.

“Good. Then go prep,” Pierce uttered, turning around and leaving the white washed tiled room. The Soldier grimaced and grasped the bar that ran the length of the room. He tugged himself up, biting back a scream into a groan when he placed more pressure than his fractured leg could support. He grunted, and began to hobble out of the room. He'd have to get a brace of some sort going in order to be able to work this mission. He glanced down at the photograph.

Nick Fury stared back at him. The Soldier grinned. This...should be interesting.

* * *

Natasha slipped into the backseat of the van. Steve glanced back at her, one hand up clutching the hold in reflex.

“Well?” Nick asked as he put the car into gear.

“Clint's gone underground,” Natasha said. “Something must have spooked him. I left a message where he could find it.” She didn't say that 'where he could find it' meant engraved for all time in sandstone after hijacking a SHIELD drone. She didn't need to, given Nick's pursed lips and disappointed scowl.

“What about Stark?” he demanded.

“Stark will meet us in the city, I'll hand off the package there,” Natasha said calmly.

“Knowing Stark that will be pretty public,” Steve pointed out. “If HYDRA has even a hint of that we have the drive and gave it over to Stark....”

“Oh I don't doubt he'll make the meeting as public as he can,” Natasha agreed, “but they won't be focused on the exchanged if they're focused on Stark. I'll slip it to Pepper when he makes an entrance.”

Steve had a bad feeling as he asked, “What type of entrance?” Natasha just smiled. “...I'm not going to like this am I.”

“You usually don't,” Nick muttered. The amount of rows Steve had gotten into with Tony since their meeting were becoming nigh legendary within SHIELD. Suffice it to say there was a reason why Steve ended up choosing to remain away from Stark Tower.

“Don't worry, Steve, it'll be fun!” Natasha said with a grin. Steve grimaced.

“That's not exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Nick rolled his eyes as the van slipped past the final checkpoint. So far, so good. While the two children, because Nick couldn't honestly call Steve Rogers an old man, not with the way he bickered like a big brother alongside Natasha, exchanged words and bars Nick routed the destination. He suddenly felt a bit like his grandfather, old and dealing with two fool kids in the backseat. Never mind that one of those fool kids was actually ninety-five and had the mannerisms to prove it. Nick shook his head with a sigh.

“Activate communications encryption protocol,” he said, loud enough to cut the chatter. Steve turned around in his seat with a raised eyebrow.

_Activating communications encryption protocol._

“Open secure line zero four zero five,” Nick repeated. There was a short _Confirmed_ and a second of silence before Maria Hill's picture took up a portion of the screen.

_“This is Hill.”_

“I need you here in DC,” Nick said calmly. “Deep shadow conditions.”

_“I'll be there in four hours.”_

“You have three,” Nick corrected, then sighed as the line disconnected. He glanced at the little timer. Good, not enough to track the call.

“Nick?” Natasha asked, leaning forward in her seat, curious.

“Maria's the only other one I trust aside from you, Barton, Phil, Stark, and ain't that just perfect, and Captain America here,” Nick reiterated. “Anyone else could be HYDRA. I'm not going to risk SHIELD any further than it is by pulling in someone who I can't trust. Besides, a small elite strike team will be more effective than a slew of agents.”

Steve nodded. “That's how we took down the Hydra bases mostly,” he agreed. “Me and my 'Howling Commandos'. Rarely did we take on more men, and only if we expected higher resistance.”

Nick nodded. “How do you think I got the idea? Now where in the hell are we meeting Stark, Natasha?”

* * *

Nick pulled the car up to the curb and looked around cautiously. The space was amply crowded, most probably because Stark was there on a date with Miss Potts. It was good cover, both for an assassin and for the target so it could work both in favor and against. At the same time Stark himself gave good coverage so if anyone attempted to kill Nick or his companions here the blowback would be extreme enough to put a dent into HYDRA's plans if they even attempted it.

“This'll do,” Nick nodded. He opened the drivers side passenger door and slipped into the crowd with Natasha and Steve. Steve, being Captain America, naturally drew eyes around him as they entered into the restaurant.

“Hi, I have a reservation with Tony Stark,” Natasha said cheerfully at the hosts stand. The hostess stuttered for a brief moment, almost dropping her folders at the name, but then Tony stepped out and waved.

“Hey, Capsicle!”

Steve withheld a groan as Tony approached.

“What is wrong with you?” Tony asked. “You don't write, you don't call. Don't you love me anymore? What about the baby!”

“Stark,” Steve said slowly, but didn't get much else in edgewise as next second Tony bound up and planted a kiss onto Steve's lips leaving the other man wide eyed in surprise. Behind him Pepper Potts sighed and hugged Natasha with a smile. Natasha took the time to slip the drive into Pepper's jacket pocket, obscured by the hosts stand, before Tony dragged all three of them back into the restaurant. Steve looked pale.

“You okay there, Cap?” Nick asked with a wry grin.

Steve swallowed. “Fine,” he said, and if his voice was a bit higher than normal nobody said anything.

* * *

The Soldier pulled out a pen of localized anesthetic and stabbed himself in the leg. He cursed the pain that radiated up and out and the worse it got as he splint the thing, dressed, and then took his bike off to hunt down his target. It brought to mind a phantom pain in his left arm, of cold and falling, of wind tearing through his clothes and his skin, of hitting the ground and everything _breaks_ and--

He shook his head, raised his right hand and _pressed_ into his cheek until he almost screamed from the pain. Getting distracted now would mean failure, and the Soldier doesn't want another lesson on why failure is not an option.

“ _Радуйся Hydra,_ ” he snarled to himself, snapping his mind back into place. The pain washed away and he settled down onto his stomach, rifle perched at the edge of the roof. He found and then followed the car that housed Nick Fury until the man came to a stop outside this restaurant. He'd gone a further three blocks, took a right, and wrapped back two before parking and limping his way up to the roof just in time to catch his target, Subject: Black Widow, and the man in blue not in blue step out towards the restaurant.

The Soldier breathed out slowly through his nose, ignoring the stinging sensation that radiated up into his skull. Pain was peripheral and had no place here. He settled his eye against the scope and watched, waited. For now information gathering was most important. He wasn't in any condition for a drawn out battle, and if his brief taste of the man in blue not in blue's abilities meant anything, a drawn out battle would definitely occur.

He made made a mental note on Fury's chosen bodyguards, shifted minutely, and kept his gaze firmly on the target. The Soldier watched as they walked up to the hosts stand, as Subject: Black Widow cheerfully greeted the host—the pang of familiarity hit him so that for a moment he had to look away, had to hiss to himself, “ **Радуйся Hydra,** ” and snap his mind back into place for the second time.

The Soldier snarled. This mission already began to take its toll, he didn't dare think what prolongued surveillance would do to his already fractured state. He needed the freeze, needed the cold to stop this deterioration so that when he awoke again he could be on top of his game, ready to do as commanded. He breathed out through his nose and returned to watching the target.

His left hand clenched into a fist as he ground his teeth together, grinding the grip of his weapon into scrap metal. He actually had to forcefully pull his hands from the rifle, roll onto his back, and stop looking at the sudden surge of (what? what is this?) red hot (rage?) that shot through him like some sort of sick disease. The Soldier breathed out heavily, snapped, “ _ **Радуйся Hydra,**_ ” to no effect. All he could see was the man in blue not in blue lip locked with someone else, and all he could think was a sharp, possessive,

**_MINE_ **

and all he could feel was the urge to pull the trigger and drop a slug into the offenders face. The Soldier scrubbed his right hand over his face, slammed his head into the concrete, but nothing seemed to help. He thought, _'Malfunction?'_ to himself, because what else could this be? This was not something he'd been prepared for, told how to handle. This was new, and new was dangerous. New meant pain and re-education. The Soldier grit his teeth.

New meant failure. Malfunction. Error.

The Soldier laid there. It took work, but he brought himself back. He slipped his gaze to the scope, the red hot fire in his veins simmering, but maintained for the moment. He caught the target and his bodyguards leaving, and moved to pack up. He took one look at his rifle and, furious with himself, took the weapon apart and tossed all but the scope over the side of the building as he limped his way back to his bike.

The scope the Soldier could still use, the rest was ruined. The memory of _how_ brought the fire to the surface, strong enough that he growled, lowly, to himself, “ **моя.** ” He slipped his splinted leg over the seat of his bike, settled in place, and turned the ignition. The initial burst jolted the fracture, but the Soldier bore it down until he took off, able to follow his target and the man in blue not in blue towards their next destination.

He'd keep observing, it was his mission after all, but now he had another (personal?) mission to accomplish as well. Find out more about that man in blue not in blue. Find out _why_ his blood boiled (what did it mean?) and then, when he had unearthed what he could, put to rest this, this (what is it? _fuck_ he knew this! remember, dammit!) whatever the hell this was.

Never mind that the Soldier had not once done something the he _wanted_ or something that his owner didn't expressly say for him to do. He worked around that bit that said _you can't do this_ by reminding himself that he was preemptively taking action. _They_ would want him to find out what this was and make it stop, after all. They'd _order_ him to do it, and so knowing this, he would. It was merely a mission they'd assign in the future, but why couldn't he do it now instead?

The first (wall?) took a chip. The Soldier (no, not--) began to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Голубка – golubka – my dove  
> 2\. ебать – eblat' – fuck, cuss out (GOOGLE TRANSLATE)  
> 3\. да – da – yes  
> 4\. Радуйся Hydra – Raduĭsi͡a Hydra – Hail Hydra  
> 5\. моя – moi͡a – my, mine


	2. Chapter 2

It took two days before boredom set in and the Soldier decided he'd better go and requisition a new rifle to replace the one he'd mangled. He'd put it off for two days, surveyed his target for _two whole days_ and he felt pretty confident that even if he disappeared Nick Fury wouldn't leave his not-SHIELD base. So he slipped out of the tree, scooped his bag of supplies up, and bit back a curse when his leg throbbed furiously at him because he put too much pressure on it.

The Soldier made his way into downtown DC, searching out a phone booth of some kind to make the call to his equipment handler, another HYDRA agent he didn't know by name but by face and voice like the one who gave him missions and told which group of armed guards to punish him for whatever infraction he'd committed this time. He didn't carry any sort of communications devices on him accept for a single pager which would give him a number to call but they rarely paged him when he was on assignment. Everything HYDRA told him to do was first vetted and quadruple checked before he was sent out to work. The Soldier was their efficient killing machine, after all.

He pulled his bike up to rest next to the first phone booth he came across. Slipped off his seat and limped into the box. He didn't bother hiding himself because for some reason nobody really noticed the odd guy in leather and kevlar as long as his arm remained wrapped up, which on most missions it did. With his right hand he picked the phone off of the hook and dialed in a familiar code to bypass the need to pay, and then a familiar number.

He waited, patiently, until the familiar voice picked up. Stuffing the feeling of (awkward) standing in public for a work related call into the recesses of his mind like everything else.

_“There had better be a damn good reason you are calling me.”_

The Soldier licked his lips. “Мое оружие со сбоями. Я нужна замена.”

_“How many times do we have to tell you to use English?”_

The Soldier bit his lip but repeated himself in English. “My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement.”

_“Which weapon? And what the hell did you do to it?”_

“My rifle.”

_“That thing is top of the line, what did you do, fuck it?”_

“No,” the Soldier said. He grit his teeth, ground them together at the simple thought of—of— _what did that even mean?_

_“Tell me why, exactly, your goddamn rifle doesn't work. That thing is worth more than you to replace.”_

The Soldier pursed his lips, tried to find the words. “Хотите, я продемонстрировать, как я молол в металлолом? Руки бы сделать хорошую замену.” He kept his voice even, complacent, but couldn't help the sharp grin of all teeth and how his eyes narrowed, blood burning in his veins. Normally he wouldn't even dare say something like that, too familiar with his place at the bottom, as nothing more than a tool to be used. However he remembered this voice didn't known Russian, couldn't speak it, and he remembered—remembered—he didn't like this voice, this face.

He didn't like _any of them._ He wasn't allowed likes. The Soldier bit his lip, forced the pain to bring focus, and waited.

_“English you pitiful fuck.”_

“My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement,” the Soldier repeated.

_“You know what? I don't want to know how you screwed your own rifle. A replacement will be waiting at the facility, and you better be prepared to make this up to me.”_

The Soldier said nothing, waited for the tell tale click to signal the end of the line, and hung up. He stared at the phone for a minute, before with a snarl shoved his left arm straight through it like butter. He flexed his fingers, stared at the bits of the phones inner workings as they tumbled away. He scowled.

_What did it mean?_

* * *

It took two days before Nick felt comfortable in letting Steve go, and even then it only came about because he threw up his hands and gave the Director of SHIELD what for, tired of this overreaching paranoia. Nobody had attacked, Nick was still alive, _and Steve had a life to live._

“Two days, _two days_ Nick!” Steve snapped. “Do you think HYDRA won't notice a two day absence?”

“It's SHIELD,” Nick reminded him, weary. “And you're on assignment.”

“The hell I am!” Steve said, punching his fist into the wall. “I get that you are a paranoid bastard, but jesus _fuck_ Nick, it's like you don't even want to try and make this work! If we want HYDRA to remain in the dark _we can't let them know we're on to them!_ ”

Nick exploded with fury, and Steve had to shove down the bad pun before it escaped his throat with a snicker.

“I don't want this to work? Of course I want it to fucking work!” Nick snapped, bursting up, arms shaking, until he was face to face with Steve and his lips pulled back into a snarl. “SHIELD is my _baby,_ Rogers. I want nothing more than to get rid of the rot inside her!”

“Then let me do my job,” Steve spat back, brow furrowed. “Let me go home, let me act like life is normal, peachy keen, and give me an assignment, send me out to work. There's nothing more I can do, especially if I stay here.”

“And what if they come for me?” Nick demands. “I'm the most likely target standing in their way, I'm the Director of the fucking agency.”

“You're not the only one at the top,” Steve pointed out.

“You mean Secretary Pierce?” Nick scoffed and turned away. “The Security Counsel? None of them would listen to me in this matter. _Hell_ some of them are probably HYDRA!”

“Because you don't trust anyone!” Steve pointed out. “You don't open yourself up for trust!”

Nick licked his lips as he turned around with a snarl of, “I sure as hell trust you, don't I?”

“Then trust me to do my job,” Steve said sharply. “Trust me to know what works.”

Maria and Natasha stand off to the side. They watch the match like it is a game of ping pong, heads bouncing from one combatant to the other.

“Steve's going to win this one,” Natasha pointed out calmly. Maria gave a slow, “Yup,” in reply. Even she can see when Nick is beat, and Nick is beyond beat now. He's also terrified, not that he'd admit it, and that makes Maria sigh and shake her head and want to slap him over the ear and knock sense into him.

Finally Nick yelled, “Fine! Have it your way!”

Maria and Natasha exchange a glance as Steve hollered back, already on his way out, “About damn time!”

They split up when Nick looked in their direction and scowled, “What the hell are you two lookin' at?” at them. Maria with a repressed smile and Natasha with this look that made Nick just sigh and shake his head. “Oh fuck you Maria,” he added in an undertone.

“I'm not your wife,” Maria replied.

“I don't _have_ a wife, woman!” Nick snapped back. “And a good thing too since you nag like one!”

Natasha snickered, and then slipped out of the bunker-base that Nick wanted to use. She caught Steve standing just outside the treeline, next to the road, scowling.

“How are you going to get back, big guy?” Natasha asked, leaning against a tree. Steve glanced at her and began to stretch out his legs.

“I'll run,” he said calmly. “I could do with the exercise.”

Natasha's lips curled and she shifted her gaze up and down his form, somewhat appreciatively. “Don't wear yourself out, cowboy,” she said, pushed off from the tree, and then headed inside.

“I'll try not to,” Steve shot back, stretched his back one last time, and then took off with a breath.

* * *

It happened while he was on his way back to the facility. He sped through the lanes, curved over his bike, trying to refrain from cursing as his leg throbbed and reminded him that the vibrations were the worst thing possible for it now, but that didn't matter because he had a job to do, and further damage meant nothing because he healed far better than any other living thing ever did. The Soldier sped through the streets, so focused on his destination, that he didn't notice the familiar man in blue not in blue until he pulled right up next to him, looked over.

“So, where you headed?” the man not in blue shouted. The Soldier could see at his back rested the Shield, painted red silver and blue, and let out a curse. He swerved left, out of traffic, nearly crashed before he pulled the bike to a halt and unholstered one of the smaller guns that sat just inside his jacket. He took aim, a scowl forming beneath his mask and started to fire.

The man in blue not in blue immediately raised his shield, deflecting most of the bullets and forcing the Soldier flip backwards in order to dodge. The Soldier snarled, tossed the gun, and with his left picked up his own bike and hurled it in the others direction with a yell.

The bike, the shield, and the other went tumbling one after another. A car swerved into two others in an attempt to miss the iconic hero who pulled himself up out of the rubble with a groan. The Soldier was already moving by that point, racing in with a mechanical arm enhanced punch that was dodged. He followed it by a swipe of one of his knives, blocked by the shield. They exchanged blows, parried, got a few hits into one another.

“Is this any way to respond to a question?” the man in blue not in blue asked, dodging around another knife swipe and responding with a rather forceful shield thrust. The Soldier snarled and lashed out with a kick, not his best idea at the moment but it did its job never mind the flare of pain that tore a quick scream from him. It worked as a good distraction though, forcing the other to pause with a furrowed brow and a muttered, “You're injured.”

The Soldier backed up, licked his lips. He liked the feel of adrenaline that surged in his veins. His lips pulled into a wide grin, full of teeth, hidden underneath the mask he wore protectively around his face. He pulled out another knife, flipped it around, and stalked forward. He had the thought that this was better than _sex_ (what?) as he dashed forwards, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg, the way his head rang.

They were back into a series of blocks, parries, misses and hits. The other grimaced, his face pulled tight with some sort of emotion than the Soldier just didn't care about. He liked this feeling, this rush, this _fire._ For the first time in a long time he felt more alive than ever, more than just a weapon. For the first time he'd found his match because he knew if he was in prime condition the man in blue not in blue and he would be even, going toe to toe, instead of the other only half-focusing on the fight because the Soldier's work was sloppy.

“If you keep doing this you'll injure yourself further!” the other said.

“Shut up!” the Soldier snarled back. His eyes widened a second later when he realized he was too slow, didn't see the raised fist that knocked him flat onto his ass. He turned the blow into a backward flip, landing and then nearly collapsing when his leg started to give out under him. He settled into a half-kneel, breathing heavily.

There was wind on his cheeks. The Soldier reached a hand to touch his face, surprised to see his mask gone. His gaze darted about, and there it was just two feet to his left. He stood, slowly.

“You okay?” the other asked.

“You're good,” the Soldier said. He glanced slightly back at the man in blue not in blue. He took a deep breath but didn't move, neither did the other. “Why do you hesitate? An injury is a weakness. You could have taken me out over a dozen times.”

“Maybe I just don't like to hit a guy when he's down,” the other said with a shrug. The Soldier let out a laugh.

“That,” he said, “will get you killed.” He shifted over to his mask, bent down and picked it up, and carefully secured it back in place. He kept his face away from the other, some part of him, some part of him didn't want the man in blue not in blue to see his face.

It felt _wrong_ somehow.

“Better men have tried,” the other pointed out.

“And failed, yes, I can see that,” the Soldier replied, turning around to look at the man in blue not in blue's face. His took in the lines of his jaw, his cheekbone, his eyes, he felt that spark of _something_ and the fire wanted to burn. He wanted another round, but not to kill, which was wrong. A fight was always about the death of the opponent, right?

The other stared at him too, brow furrowed and lips narrowed. Confusion, the Soldier thought. That was what the emotion was, right?

“So you don't kill me here, when I've lowered my guard,” the Soldier said, raising his arms and then letting them flop to his sides. “You won't kill me when we're fighting, despite the obvious holes in my form because of an injury. What sort of enemy does that make you?”

The other pursed his lips. “The kind that doesn't want to make enemies.”

The Soldier tilted his head. “Make peace, not war?” he scoffed, looked off to the side, and then back at the man in blue not in blue. “Another time, then.”

The other stepped forward, picking up the discarded shield. “I can't let you go that easily,” he said.

The Soldier paused, mid step, and then smiled. “You won't have to.” He raised his hand, in it was a small remote. He flicked a switch and his bike, discarded with the others own, just not even a few feet away from him, exploded into a shower of debris and fire. The man in blue not in blue cursed and pulled his shield up and around himself in time to guard himself from most of the blast, giving the Soldier time to escape.

He still had a rifle to retrieve after all. A glance back at the debris, the crashed cars, and the man in blue not in blue frantically searching for him also hit home that he had another thing to discuss that his masters wouldn't like. The Soldier winced, but pressed on.

* * *

Somehow Steve found himself back at the bunker-base, sitting in a chair, with an ice pack held up against his face while Natasha stared at him with this look and Sam, who gave him a ride, stands awkwardly behind him as Nick glares with a scowl on his face.

“So I ran into the Winter Soldier again,” Steve finally said, if only to quit the round of awkward staring. Natasha arched her eyebrow at him.

“And how did that go?” she asked, playing along calmly.

Steve gave a wry smile. “I think I actually provoked him.”

Nick sighed and shifted his gaze from this stranger _in his base without permission_ to Steve. “Alright Rogers, I'll bite. How the _hell_ did you bait the worlds foremost assassin that nobody _believes_ exists?”

Here Steve gave a sheepish grin and rubbed the back of his head. “Well...” he drew out the word. “I was on my way home when I actually pulled up right next to him. I don't think he even noticed me until I said something. Next thing I know there's a hail of bullets, then a bike, a lot of punching, kicking, and an explosion.”

Nick breathed out slowly and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Care to elaborate?” he asked, trying not to grit his teeth.

“Short end of the stick, I need a new bike,” Steve said.

“Steve....”

Steve shot a look to Natasha, who smiled and walked around to Sam.

“So, you're Sam right?” she asked, grabbing his arm lightly. “Why don't you come this way and you and I have a little chat about how you know Steve.”

“Is this like the reverse big brother act or something?” Sam asked. “Cuz I gotta tell you I don't swing that way and I have no designs on your boys purity.”

They got quieter the further away they went, which Steve was thankful for because that wasn't awkward at _all._ He felt rosy cheeked all of a sudden and coughed. Nick sighed.

“What happened,” he said. “From the beginning.”

Steve nodded, set the ice down, and started to talk. He explained how he was on his bike, intending to visit the Smithsonian to which Nick stared at him for a second and then shook his head with a sigh and motioned for Steve to continue. Steve explained how he literally passed the Winter Soldier by and, remembering the last time he saw the assassin, figured at least he could try and see where the other was going.

“Without back up?” Nick demanded.

“I went toe to toe with him for five minutes last time,” Steve pointed out, “half-blinded by smoke and got away relatively unscathed.”

Nick shook his head, muttered something about heroes, and motioned for Steve to continue. Steve explained that he just intended to catch the guys attention, that he hadn't planned on being recognized but then, he'd had his shield at his back because some of Nick's paranoia had rubbed off on him and he was a little leery of running into HYDRA unprepared. He gave as best a blow by blow of the action as he could, how the Winter Soldier escaped by detonating his bike, on top of Steve's, guaranteeing Steve would have to deflect the blast or get badly hurt. Not to mention the civilians who where loitering, gaping at the combat like it was a side show.

“The thing is,” Steve finished, “he was injured. His leg was at the least sprained if not outright fractured. That type of injury he shouldn't have been out and about doing anything stressful.”

Nick frowned. “Strange.”

Steve nodded, pursed his lips. “You think something might have changed?” Nick shrugged.

“I don't know. Keep an eye open just in case,” he said. “And at least return here once a day now that we have confirmation that he's active in DC.”

Steve nodded and got to his feet, intending to hunt down Sam and Natasha before _permanent_ damage could be done to his reputation.

“Oh, and Rogers?” Nick said. Steve paused. “Next time don't bring unknowns to my base, are we clear?”

Steve nodded. “Crystal, sir.”

* * *

The Soldier stepped into the facility hours later. He limped through back roads, out of sight of people as often as he could. Sometimes he'd hear whispers about his fight with the man in blue not in blue, hear a name he can recognize, but he can't understand its meaning. The Soldier knew his face would be all over, picking a fight in a public place like that, but he doesn't care. He _liked_ it.

The second he past the first gate in the facility, still running from a high from that fight and so unfocused on his surroundings, the but of a gun is slammed against the back of his head. He goes down, twists to kick back up at his attacker who took the second before he could raise his legs to stomp down on the one that is fractured. The Soldier screamed, eyes snapped open wide. He caught sight of one of his handlers, the one he contacted earlier.

Rumlow stepped around the Soldier until he could slam his leg down over the young man's neck with a sneer on his face. The Soldier struggled, tried to take in breath, and with his shiny, metallic arm—a gift from HYDRA to make their weapon more efficient—reaches up and grasped Rumlow's leg. The Soldier squeezed, applying enough pressure until he can tug and toss Rumlow into the far wall.

He pulled himself up, reached back into his belt for his knife and stalked forward, ready to slice into his attacker handler, master, owner or no.

“Stand down!” the words are sharp, bitten out, and instantly the Soldier went still. He licked his lips, breathed heavily through his nose. His leg throbbed something fierce as his gaze darted over to see Pierce standing there, furious.

He missed Rumlow getting up on his feet and decking the Soldier solidly across the face. He only realized it happened when he was back on the ground again. Rumlow stepped forward, ready to provide a sharp kick to the Soldier's ribs when Pierce raised a hand, frown across his lips.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded. The Soldier licked his lips.

“The pain clouded my mind,” the Soldier bit out.

“That's not what I'm talking about,” Pierce said coldly. “The fight. The one that has gone practically viral?”

The Soldier grit his teeth, ran his tongue along them in an attempt to wipe away the fresh touch of blood. He said, “He recognized me. From before.”

“From where exactly,” Pierce demanded.

“My previous mission,” the Soldier said. “He is also in the way of my current mission.” Those words were bit out, ground out sharp like shards of glass.

“And your rifle?” Pierce continued. The Soldier grit his teeth, breathed out heavily, and answered.

“I had a malfunction in my arm. Squeezed too tight, rendered the rifle into scrap metal. Left it behind, it was useless.” Pierce scowled, arched an eyebrow, and the Soldier added, “Two days ago.”

Rumlow narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth to say something but a look from Pierce quieted him immediately. “Get up,” Pierce said sharply and the Soldier pulled himself to his feet. He swayed, his leg in a much worse state now than it was before. “Go to the back, have your arm checked over. I don't want a repeat of this again.”

The Soldier nodded and hobbled his way back past the second and third gate to his chair.

Rumlow scowled, stepped forward and demanded, “You're just going to let it get away with that?” Pierce shot him another look.

“Any more damaged and he'll be of no use,” Pierce said. “Like it or not he has a job to complete, and in order to continue ahead with Insight Fury needs to be out of the picture. Permanently.”

“We should wipe it then, as a precaution,” Rumlow said.

Pierce shook his head, “No. He's shown no signs of deterioration yet. If he starts to become problematic, though, maybe.”

Rumlow scowled, looked back at the Soldier sitting in the chair, staring into nothing while the techs checked over his arm, worked through each piece with precise care.

“It attacked Rogers in the middle of the city, without orders,” Rumlow pointed out.

Pierce sighed and said, “A regrettably understandable situation that confirms what I had already thought. Nick's pulled Rogers in as protection detail for whatever he's scheming up this time.”

“That'll decrease the likelihood of success then,” Rumlow said and Pierce smiled coldly.

“Not as much as you'd think,” he said. “At least not once he's healed up enough. You're little exchange there pushed back his timetable, so any lack of success can be laid at your feet. Am I clear?”

Rumlow lowered his gaze, muttered a short, “Yes, sir.”

Pierce nodded. “Good. Make sure he's ready, provide him with whatever he needs, and then send him out. He knows what to do.”

* * *

He grabbed a shitty motel room, dropped his bags full of equipment and medical supplies geared to speed up his recovery beside the bed, before he sat gingerly on the edge, scowling at his leg. What had previously been a hairline fracture, readily healing, now turned into a near full break. The bone wasn't snapped in two, if it was he wouldn't even _think_ of walking or riding all the way to the motel on the edges of DC. As it is his masters don't even know he's here, and not sitting outside Fury's bunker watching and recording everything of note.

The Soldier didn't care. What his masters wanted his masters wanted, and while normally he'd be right on it, at the moment he is nothing more than a liability. He'd rather sit here, with his broken mind, replaying the fight with the man in blue not in blue, replaying the _thrill_ and the _heat_ and the _fire_ that burned in him, that caught his attention, than attempt surveillance that will ultimately get him caught and dead.

The bed was soft, the Soldier realized as he pulled himself up onto the mattress more. It wasn't too soft, but it was softer than he'd ever been used to from what he could remember. On the days where he'd be out for more twenty-four hours the Soldier slept on a cot, or on the hard tile. When a mission required him to be out for more than twenty-four hours he'd sleep in a tree or on a ground or not at all. This mattress, shitty motel or not, felt like a rather lumpy cloud of marshmallows. The Soldier scowled.

He looked at the bedside table, lifted the remote from where it rested beside the clock. He stared at it, a bit confused, and hit the obvious power button. He'd seen televisions, remembered them somewhere in a half-daze, but the Soldier never had time to just let himself watch. It, like so many other things, was taboo. Disallowed. He stared at his leg, remembered Rumlow, and gave a cruel parody of a smile.

Despite knowing that the West was a horrible, horrible place—he'd been told this over and over and over every time he woke up from the freeze and the cold, every time he came back from a wipe—the Soldier figured he could at least absorb some of what they wanted to say.

He knew the West lied, that they claimed to be prosperous but weren't. There were so many poor here, so many destitute. He'd heard practically everything from the streets were filled with gangsters and killers and thieves, to the soldiers would eat the dead children of their enemies. Some, the Soldier figured, where illogical and meant to scare weak minded men. He wasn't weak minded, merely a blank tool to be used and molded as his masters pleased, and when it rusted to be wiped clean and start over.

A part of him called for the wipe now, wanted it, craved it to cut out the cacophony of sounds in his own head. These surges of strangeness, the flashes, the yells, things that were indistinct and half-remembered, half-forgotten. The longer he was awake, out of the freeze, the more they became distinct, real, remembered. The more erratic he could, would, and _had_ become the further along he'd be away from the ice and the machine and his chair. The Soldier grimaced, pursed his hips together.

At the same time, he didn't want to lose this new found discovery of _liking_ things, of independence and ignoring orders. He pushed the channel up button, browsed until he found some mindless drivel that caught his attention and at the same time utterly disgusted him. He couldn't look away, couldn't even think.

The Soldier was surprised to find a reprieve in this 'Real Housewives of New York'.

* * *

Pierce sat at his desk, hands clasped up against his mouth as he stared out at Rumlow and his STRIKE team. He looked deadly serious despite the smile that raised to his lips as he moved his head down with a sigh.

“Insight is delayed until we can get rid of Fury,” Pierce stated. “With Fury still listed as the Director we'd need his approval to launch. Unfortunately we have nothing to make the council doubt Fury's still on board with SHIELD, which means assassination is our only option.”

Pierce leaned back in his chair, look at each member and then staring hard at Rumlow. “We've already put our best asset on the job,” he said, “despite some...minor...setbacks.” He took a breath, continued. “The problem we are facing now is that Fury has gone to ground and take Black Widow and Captain America with him. All of his ops will of course go through SHIELD itself, which means we can see what they will do and plan accordingly however.”

Here Pierce leaned forward, clasping his hands again just below his chin.

“However I believe that Fury has unearthed something he should not know,” Pierce continued. “I believe he either strongly suspects HYDRA influence in SHIELD, or already knows about us and is merely biding his time gathering proof.”

Rumlow nodded and said, “Which is where we come in.”

Pierce smiled coldly. “Precisely. Your STRIKE team will be heading to every known data center we have, as I know Fury and those will be the first places he checks, and remove anything pertaining to or hinting towards HYDRA. Now, I do not expect resistance, and honestly this is a job Sitwell could do easily enough if he had full clearance, however. On the off chance that your current assignment matches up with Captain America and Black Widow, I'd trust HYDRA's chances with the STRIKE team in play.”

Rumlow nodded, looked back to his boys, and then back to Pierce.

“When do we leave?” he asked.

“Sitwell is generating you a list of data centers for you to access,” Pierce stated. “Further on that Agent Coulson and his team will be flying in, in two days. You are to covertly pull whatever you can from the agents Coulson has, and from his transports on board systems as well.”

Rumlow nodded. “Should be a piece of cake. We already have an inside man.”

* * *

Natasha handed over the cash to the front desk, accepted the key to the room she just paid for, and turned down the hall. The tab said 104, close enough to the entrance of the building, yet also with a quick back exit. Perfect for the time being until Clint showed up from who knows where and they got this 'stop Hydra' ball rolling beyond Nick lamenting that there was rot within SHIELD.

She had a small bag of the essentials strapped to her back like a backpack, her per-prepared knapsack for when she had to move locations, filled with the equipment she most used. Such as her garrote wire, her bracelets loving called Black Widows Bite, and her handguns with ammunition. She'd just pulled out the key to her room when someone limped heavily past her.

Natasha paused, turned to look. She swore for a minute that she recognized the person, that she knew them, when she looked again as the figure stopped two doors down at 106, she couldn't figure out where she thought she saw them. He had a bag of food clutched between his teeth, another under his left arm, and was opening the door one-handed with his right give or take a bit of a struggle.

She watched as he almost dropped his food, let out a muffled curse as the bag in his mouth threatened to fall, before he got the door opened and limped inside, leg wrapped tightly in a brace. The door slipped shut behind him, she could hear two loud thumps of the bags being dropped and then the familiar sound of that drivel Clint liked to watch, muffled through the walls.

Natasha sighed, opened her door, dropped her bag off. It must have all been in her head. He didn't actually look like anyone she knew, dressed in a dark blue hoodie with a thick black leg brace where his leg was obviously broken and still healing. If she were even perfectly honest with herself it most likely was a passing resemblance to someone she'd killed.

With a sigh Natasha turned on the radio, sought out a channel that she could listen to, and turned up the volume. Not too loud, because she could get into trouble, but loud enough to drown out the drivel from down the hall.

* * *

One week. It took one week before Nick felt like they had a plan, that they were going somewhere. Coulson and May were debriefed on the situation and on board with the plan, although Nick had to drag Coulson off alone when they showed up to even get him to cooperate. He rubbed his shoulder in remembrance, lips tugged down into a frown.

That meeting reminded Nick what shame felt like. He pushed the thoughts down, focused on the plan at hand.

“We need more intel,” he said to Natasha, Steve, and Maria. “So I'm sending you to on a continuous op to each of our major DC data centers. Barton will be checking our overseas centers. Coulson and May will be working to gather intel on what centers may be compromised--”

It sounded like a car backfired. The noise reverberated, echoed around them. Nick, in his seat, jerked back, his good eye snapping wide. One hand jerked up to his shoulder and came away red with blood.

Natasha and Maria immediately ran to Nick's side, Maria calling for medical back up. They had doctors on standby, ones vetted out fifteen times to be certain they weren't HYDRA. Steve looked around, searching for the point of entry. The entire base was meant to be a bunker, surrounded on all sides by concrete. This area was at its thickest, which meant the shot couldn't have come from outside but _inside._

Steve caught movement out of the corner of his eye and dashed after it.

“Steve!” Natasha yelled but Steve waved her off, racing after the intruder, grabbing his Shield as he passed it by.

Steve burst through the door seconds after the intruder, swung his arm back and tossed his Shield towards the back of a dark head of hair. He couldn't tell as easily in the dark who it was, but Steve had a good guess. The Soldier dove to the left, rolled, and came up with his rifle aimed at Steve. The Shield impacted and buried itself into a tree off behind him.

They stood like that for a few seconds, staring at one another in silence. The Soldier slowly got to his feet, Steve noted that he was favoring his leg still, and pointed his rifle down towards the ground. Steve's brow furrowed as he couldn't shake that there was something he was missing here, something familiar.

“Do I know you?” Steve asked, figuring maybe that was why he kept seeing the Soldier lately.

The Soldier looked down, then said, “No.” There was a moment, and then, “I am not here to fight you.”

Steve frowned. “Sure as hell a way to get attention, then.”

“He's my mission,” the Soldier shrugged. “Until Nick Fury is dead, HYDRA cannot launch Insight.”

“So you're HYDRA,” Steve said, clenching his fist.

“I am a weapon,” the Soldier corrected. “A tool. HYDRA merely uses me.” The Soldier licked his lips. “I. Liked the fight.”

Steve looked baffled, completely at a loss of what he was hearing. “What?”

“Fighting you,” the Soldier reiterated. His lips pursed beneath his mask. “I liked fighting you.” He licked his lips. “I want to fight you again. When I'm...repaired.”

“What?” Steve shook his head, completely confused. “What was this, then? Some sick way to get me alone to tell me all this?”

The Soldier grimaced. “No. Nick Fury is my mission.” He clenched his fist. “I will not fail my mission. However. You. Are not my mission. I.” The Soldier shook his head.

Steve took a concerned step forward, he couldn't help it. The Soldier looked, he wasn't sure what it was but it tugged at Steve's heart.

“You okay?” he asked.

The Soldier raised his gun the minute Steve started forward, stopping Steve in his tracks. “This was not a declaration of intent,” he said clearly. “This was not an attempt at getting your attention. Nick Fury is my mission. I will complete my mission. I merely...want to fight you again. Soon.”

With that said the Soldier fired his rifle, forcing Steve to dodge not that he would have hit the other man anyway, and used the distraction to disappear into the darkness of the trees.

Steve rolled back up onto his knees and looked around. He pushed himself to his feet, cautiously, and made his way over to his Shield. A second later he rolled to the left, tugging his Shield out of the tree and up, but he needn't have bothered. A knife lodged itself into the tree, a letter attached written entirely in Russian.

_Я хочу реванша до окончания моей миссии, так что я буду воздерживаться от убийства вашего директора на данный момент. Драться с тобой лучше секса._

_До следующего раза, голубь._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ~~Голубка – golubka –~~ my dove /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "голубь / golub'"  
>  2\. Мое оружие со сбоями. Я нужна замена. – Moe oruzhie so sboi͡ami. I͡A nuzhna zamena. – My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement.  
> 3\. Хотите, я продемонстрировать, как я молол в металлолом? Руки бы сделать хорошую замену. – Khotite, i͡a prodemonstrirovat', kak i͡a molol v metallolom? Ruki by sdelat' khoroshui͡u zamenu. – Would you like me to demonstrate how I ground it into scrap? Your arms would make a good replacement. (Would you like me to demonstrate how I grind in the scrap? Hands would make a good replacement.)  
> 4\. Я хочу реванша до окончания моей миссии, так что я буду воздерживаться от убийства вашего директора на данный момент. ~~Борьба вас было лучше, чем секс.~~ – I͡A khochu revansha do okonchanii͡a moeĭ missii, tak chto i͡a budu vozderzhivat'si͡a ot ubiĭstva vashego direktora na dannyĭ moment. ~~Bor'ba vas bylo luchshe, chem seks. –~~ I want a rematch before my mission ends, so I'll refrain from killing your Director for now. Fighting you was better than sex. (I want a rematch before the end of my mission, so I will refrain from killing your CEO at the moment. Fighting you was better than sex.) /// CHANGED LAST SENTENCE thanks to SDCDCI to "Драться с тобой лучше секса / Drat'si͡a s toboĭ luchshe seksa"  
>  5\. До следующего раза, ~~голубка.~~ – Do sledui͡ushchego raza, ~~golubka.~~ – Until next time, my dove. ( Until next time, dove.) /// CHANGED LAST WORD thanks to SDCDCI to "голубь / golub" (mentioned on CH3 edits, unsure if this screws up grammar)


	3. Chapter 3

Steve rolled his shoulders and leaned back against the building with his wrist to his mouth.

“How long is this going to take?” he asked under his breath, staying alert for any sign that they'd been made.

 _“Hold your horses, I'm moving as fast as I can, old man,”_ Natasha hissed back. Steve rolled his eyes.

“Not fast enough, apparently,” he said, shifting slightly against the wall.

 _“You think you can do this faster?”_ Natasha asked. Steve could hear the faint clack of fingers on keys.

Steve sighed and crossed one arm across his chest. “It just doesn't feel right. This is SHIELD.”

 _“You were calling it HYDRA just last week,”_ Natasha pointed out. _“Change of heart?”_

Steve grimaced and glanced to the unconscious agent beside him. “No,” he said shortly.

_“Are you worried about Smith?”_

Steve slouched further, turned his gaze out into the darkness and ground out, “She was nice.”

 _“Well make it up to her then,”_ Steve could hear the teasing in Natasha's voice. _“Send her a fruit basket, ask her out.”_

Steve scowled, “Can you not suggest coworkers I've rendered unconscious as prospective dating material?”

 _“Oh come on, she's hot,”_ Natasha cajoled back. _“And, done. Prepare for extraction.”_

Steve straightened and picked up his Shield. He looked to Smith, muttered a short, “Sorry,” and quickly scaled the wall he'd been leaning against. This was the third SHIELD data-mine they'd hit in the past week, all within DC and the surrounding area. Steve crouched low and moved quick across the roof before slipping down to the balcony just outside where Natasha stood. She tilted her head as he rolled his eyes, raised his Shield, and smashed the lock.

“You know,” Natasha said, stepping out of the room filled with computers, “Nick really should let us travel outside of the DC area.”

Steve scoffed. “He's paranoid,” he pointed out, “and considering that sniper found his 'secret base' and nearly put him down for good, with good reason. HYDRA wants him out of the picture.”

Natasha vaulted the railing with Steve following right after.

“Yeah, but think of how much more fun it'd be if we got away for a while?” Natasha pointed out. “Like the Lumerian Star, that was fun, right?”

Steve stared at her for a long moment, mid motion to straddling his motorcycle. He shook his head, settled onto the seat, and said, “You and I have two very different ideas of fun, Natasha.”

“Yeah, mine actually involves _fun_ ,” Natasha quipped back.

Steve turned on the engine, glanced at Natasha, and said, “At least we haven't run into any HYDRA agents yet. That's got to be a good sign, right?”

Natasha smiled indulgently and said back, “Don't jinx it!”

They took off.

* * *

The Soldier lowered his scope once the man in blue and Natasha left his field of vision. He looked down at the ten men that lay in various states of disrepair around him. He pursed his lips, frowned, and furrowed his brow. Carefully he toed one of them over, looked into a familiar face, one that he'd been acquainted with more than once, and crouched over the body.

He licked his lips, patted the man on the cheek with his right hand until he earned a groan and a dazed stare. The Soldier swallowed, cocked his head to the side.

“Am I denying him fun?” he asked the agent. He was (curious?) looking for an answer. The agent groaned but didn't answer. The Soldier frowned, reached out and tugged the others chin up. He narrowed his eyes. “That's not an answer,” he scolded.

The agent groaned, muttered a weak, “Hail Hydra,” and the Soldier pursed his lips, and then sighed.

“That's not an answer either,” he pointed out, and figured this one was a loss. Calmly he unclasped one of his knives and shoved it through the agent's eye. He could admit the scream felt (nice? yes) liberating before all noise cut out. The Soldier pulled the knife back, wiped it down on the agents shirt, and put it back in place. He stood, looked out at the base. It looked peaceful, quiet. The Soldier closed his eyes, took in the fresh air, and began to pack up his rifle.

With the rifle situated, he looked to the mess around him. Normally he'd have a team set to equip him with more munitions or a different tool to use in a given circumstance, and another ready to clean up whatever mess he left behind. In the past few weeks the Soldier learned how to effectively get rid of his own messes. He was used to hiding his tracks, the skill set one long ingrained into his system. Cleaning up bodies was just another skill he'd had to learn alongside erasing his presence ever since he'd been given this mission.

Calmly he dragged one corpse after another back into the base, made sure his little clearing where he'd observed the operation was clean, and then pulled out his own bike from under some fioliage. He looked back at the base once, a small black remote in his hand. He licked his lips, pressed down on the switch, and watched the building light on fire with several loud explosions. The Soldier grinned, and then took off.

* * *

“That's another one,” Maria said with a frown, looking over to Nick. Nick cursed.

“Who the hell is blowing up my buildings?” he demanded. Maria shook her head.

“We don't know,” she said. “Surveillance is fried every time, unrecoverable. I'd say it was Natasha or Steve except this isn't their style and you didn't give the orders, sir.”

Nick scowled and pressed his lips against his entwined fingers. He looked over at Maria, and then to the door. Natasha and Steve weren't back yet, and it made him want to curse.

“Barton?” he asked.

“He's at the Fridge, reworking protocol,” Maria stated.

“Coulson? May?”

“At the Hub, debriefing Hand,” Maria countered, paused, then added, “Again.”

Nick buried his face into his hands and asked, wearily, “Stark?”

Maria grimaced, but added, “Still working on the Lumarian Star drive with no luck. Also he had a date with Potts tonight.”

Nick muttered a short, “Fuck,” and leaned back with a sigh. Each data center he sent Natasha and Steve to, with orders to get in, copy the hard drive, and get out ended up a pile of rubble after they left. “First time's a coincidence,” he said tiredly, “second's a pattern, third is a conspiracy.”

Maria nodded calmly. “If the pattern holds, like the last two the information Rogers and Romanoff retrieved will show us that the data centers were not HYDRA.”

“Which means what?” Nick scrubbed his face. “HYDRA is blowing up our buildings?”

“We should entertain the possibility,” Maria pointed out. “Either that or there is something Romonaff and Rogers miss each time, something HYDRA doesn't want us to find.”

Nick grimaced, “And it's strange enough that Romanoff and Rogers are pulling SHIELD intel covertly. You think HYDRA has figured it out?”

“I wouldn't rule out the possibility,” Maria said. “After all, they almost got you.” Nick grimaced as his shoulder throbbed in reminder.

“When will they be back?” Nick demanded. “ETA?”

Maria clacked a few keys on the laptop before her, face pinched in concentration. “Shortly,” she said.

“Right. Same conditions as last time,” Nick sighed, scratching his cheek. “We say nothing about the explosion if they don't already know.”

Maria frowned. “We should tell them, sir,” she pointed out. “Rogers won't take this secrecy well.”

Nick stared at her, narrowed his eye, and said calmly, “I know. I'll deal with the fallout.”

* * *

Natasha worked her key into the door and stepped inside her rather shitty motel of a room. Unlike most other agents she preferred to not have a permanent address, instead moving from either safe house to safe house or in this case motel to motel. Natasha knew any of her safe houses could be compromised, any of her identities known by HYDRA, and so she chose the path much harder to track.

She dropped her bag down by the door and began to unzip her uniform as she moved back towards the bathroom.

“Я мешаю ему веселиться?”

Natasha froze for a brief second before ducking into the bathroom. She tugged one of her spare guns from underneath the sink and crouched low.

“Whose there?” she called out, shoulders tense. Her eyes darted around in the darkness, searching for the source of the voice. She heard, too late, the sound of a boot tapping on the floor behind her. The next thing she knew cold metal was wrapped around her torso, a knife at her cheek, and hot breath on her ear.

“Я не причиню тебе вреда,” he said when she went still, her breath hitching. He let her go, giving her enough space to turn around and raise the gun, ready to fire, when she caught sight of his face. He held his hands up, knife in one, and then calmly, slowly, twirled the blade and put it back into his belt. He held both hands, free, up and repeated, “Видишь?”

“Winter?” Natasha said careful. The Soldier nodded. Natasha licked her lips. “Are you here to kill me?”

“Нет,” he said sharply, then paused, and asked, “Do you prefer this language?” His words were stilted, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together.

“Можно и по-русски,” Natasha said quickly, lowering her gun just a tad. The Soldier relaxed slightly. “Почему ты здесь?”

The Soldier frowned. He took a few false starts at first, before he repeated, “Могу ли я отказав ему удовольствие?”

Natasha blinked. “Кто?”

The Soldier looked down, licked his lips. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed in thought, before he said, “The man in...blue.” The words sounded even more stilted, as if certain he should be saying something else, but not sure what.

Natasha blinked, and then asked incredulously, “Steve?”

“ Да,” the Soldier nodded.

Natasha ran a hand through her hair, lowered her weapon, and said incredulously, “I can't believe I'm having this conversation.” She walked out of the bathroom, the Soldier on her heels.

“Не понял?” he asked.

Natasha shook her head and turned around, “You, here, not trying to kill me when I've been waiting for the day you'd show up and shoot me, expecting it even!” She shakes her head, “And instead of killing me, you're asking about Steve? Asking if you're not letting him have _pleasure?_ What are you even—oh.”

“Не понимаю,” the Soldier repeated. His face scrunched up, he looked like a confused puppy and Natasha had to sigh. She'd never thought that she'd ever see his face so, so young and confused again. “Он выглядит скучающе.”

“He is,” Natasha pointed out. She sat down on the bed and buried her face into her hands. “You've been stopping HYDRA.”

“Да,” the Soldier agreed. “Они слишком слабы для него. Не стоят его времени.”

Natasha let out a snort and looked up at the Soldier, mask-less, with a lost and pining expression on his face. She'd never thought she'd see the day.

“I can't believe this,” she muttered, and then, continued, “Пусть он сам с этим разберется. Он не будет благодарен за то, что ты решил за него. ”

The Soldier licked his lips and looked down, then back to her. “Тогда что мне делать?” he asked. “Это то, что я знаю.”

Natasha shook her head with a soft chuckle and said, “Почему бы тебе с ним не поговорить? Может быть, ты придумаешь занятие, которое он оценит?”

The Soldier licked his lips and looked off to the side, in thought. Natasha breathed out slowly, finding this entire experience surreal. Eventually he nodded, muttered a short thanks, and then walked out the door. Natasha watched him go, and, once she was alone, she burst down into hysterics, half certain she'd just imagined the whole encounter.

* * *

The Soldier snuck his way into Nick Fury's base. He found himself standing over the man, who was fast asleep, with a knife in his hand and his face pinched in thought. He could end it here, complete his mission now as ordered and return back to the facility, return to the machine and his chair and let them put him back into the freeze. He could do all this after weeks of work, weeks of surveillance and weeks of watching the man in blue— _Steve_ , of watching _Steve_ because that is the name he'd been thinking of but not thinking of.

He held the knife, a thin, long, butterfly thing loosely in his left. His gaze remained focused on that slumbering face, Agent Hill unconscious with a sedative carefully slipped into her drink just down the hall. He'd made it special about a week and a half ago, intending to give it to Наталия, sneak it into her drink or food and then pull whatever answers he wanted from her, because he knows her in a way he can't describe. He can see her face when he closes his eyes, smiling, _younger._

She spoke по-русски to him, in a familiar cadence, the first person ever to do so since the technician who woke him up for that mission on the Lumarian Star. She was the first person not to demand English out of him when he didn't want to give it.

The Soldier backed away, slipping the knife into his belt. There was something, something about knowing Романова, Наталья Аляовна that brought to mind the familiarity of _Steve_. If he knew her, then could the Soldier have known him? But no, the memories there are indistinct, further back than the days of  Наталья and so the Soldier pursed his lips, turned around, and pulled up the laptop that Agent Hill had been looking over before she fell asleep.

This would be the third night he'd snuck in here, slipped a drug into Agent Hill's food, and struggled against completing his mission. He struggled because he knew he wasn't fully repaired. His leg still throbbed something fierce, he still wore the brace, the splint to keep it firmly stiff, but he could place more and more pressure on it day after day. He struggled because he wanted that _fight_ , the one he told _Steve_ about. He wanted to feel that fire at least one last time before he completed the mission and forgot all over again.

With a single minded focus the Solider clacked on the keys, bypassing Agent Hill's required password by inputing one of HYDRA's instead. He focused on hunting down the planned mission for Steve and Наталья because of course another mission would come up soon enough. Fury wanted HYDRA out of SHIELD but the Soldier didn't think that was possible. HYDRA by this point was SHIELD only SHIELD didn't know it yet.

Once he pulled the destination and appropriate mission details the Soldier logged into HYDRA's network, a pocket of coded information within SHIELD's network. He used Rumlow's passcode and logon information. They were the same as his SHIELD passcode and logon information which the Soldier could access easily from Agent Hill's computer with a few key strokes and a simple command.

The Soldier bit his lip, scrolled through Rumlow's missions, searching. Assured that he knew all the details he could gather at this point, he quickly backtracked out and promptly erased what he'd just done from Agent Hill's computer memory. The Soldier slipped the computer back into place, double checked that Agent Hill was still breathing, and then slipped out of Fury's bunker as quiet as he came in.

* * *

Steve and Natasha blew past the front gate. Steve already had his Shield off of his back and tossed it at gate guard, knocking him out instantly. Natasha pulled out a gun that Phil had given her known as an ICER. She fired off two quick shots at the nearest outer security as Steve caught his Shield. They both skidded to a halt right before the building proper. Steve kicked down the kickstand for the bike and cut the engine.

“You ready for this?” Natasha asked, slipping off her own bike and pulling out a second gun. She double checked its ammunition before glancing back at Steve with a grin.

“There seem to be more of them this time,” Steve said, glancing at the amount of agents gathering in the foyer. “And they don't look happy to see us.”

“I wonder why,” she said with a laugh. Steve rolled his eyes, they shared a look, and then Natasha fired off two ICER rounds into the window as Steve bull rushed the other, shield held out protectively against the spray of glass.

They worked in tandem despite the fact that the agents inside began to fire live rounds at them. Natasha fought back with ICER, ducking in and delivering elbows and quick palm thrusts when that didn't work. Steve whacked agents with his Shield, ducked behind it to deflect bullets before quickly punching one after another out. They moved fast, breaking through the group who'd gathered to stop them.

It ended only when the last agent lay unconscious and Natasha and Steve surrounded by nothing more than bodies. Steve bent down to look at one, Natasha stepping over to him as she calmly replaced the ICER rounds in her guns.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

Steve frowned, staring at the Agent's collar. “I don't know,” he said. “Look at this.”

Natasha knelt down to look at what had caught Steve's attention. “It's just a pin,” she said, calmly, although her brow furrowed.

“Since when has SHIELD handed out pins?” Steve questioned. Natasha pursed her lips, but got to her feet.

“We'll look into that later, big boy. Right now we have a job to do,” she told him, and reluctantly Steve likewise got to his feet. “I take left you take right?”

Steve rolled his shoulders. “First one to the central processing room wins?” he countered. Natasha grinned.

“Deal,” she said, somewhat pleased that Steve would play with her like this. “Go!”

They both darted up the separate set of stairs. With precision Steve and Natasha checked each room they came across, working through floor after floor, knocking out any stray agents they came across as they did so. They had to be thorough, otherwise the entire mission could be jeopardized. Towards the end of the last hall, leading to the room both Natasha and Steve were after, Steve bounced across the walls, dodging desks and plants ready to knock down the single agent on his end with a quick punch to the face before the other could even realize what happened. Across from him Natasha came to a stop with a roundhouse against another agents face.

They exchanged a look and darted for the glass door to the room. Natasha beat him by half a second and shot him a victorious grin. She arched an eyebrow at him and Steve sighed.

“Alright,” he said with raised hands. “You win. Same as last time?” His tone was filled with fond exasperation, especially when she smirked so utterly pleased with herself.

“You better have it ready when we get back,” she told him as she turned around and began fiddling with the keyboard. Steve pulled out a thumb drive and plugged it in the slot next to her.

“I'll pick it up on my way,” Steve said with a shake of his head. He looked up at the screen, leaning against the desk that Natasha chose to work at, legs and arms crossed. “What have we got?”

Natasha pursed her lips, browsing through files as quick as she could while she copied them over. “It looks like just more SHIELD intel, nothing HYDRA related so far.” Steve hummed in understanding and looked around for a pad and pen.

“Same story as last time then?” he asked, moving to root through one of the drawers, and then another when he didn't find anything there.

“Yeah,” Natasha said, distracted. Some of this intel was deep, high level and shouldn't be held on servers outside the Triskelion or the Hub. Her brow furrowed as she licked her lips. Two computers down Steve let out a triumphant sound in the back of his throat having found the pen and pad he was looking for.

Steve scribbled a note, using blocky all capital letters to be certain it was legible by one who found it, and calmly stuck the note to one of the computer screens.

  
_THANKS!_   
_YOU'VE JUST PARTICIPATED IN A SURPRISE SECURITY TEST_   
_AND FAILED. CLEAN UP THE SECURITY GUYS OR YOU'LL_   
_HAVE MORE TO WORRY ABOUT THAN THE BLACK_   
_WIDOWS BITE AND A SUPER SOLDIER HEADACHE!_   
_CAPTAIN AMERICA & BLACK WIDOW_   


“Done writing your love note?” Natasha asked calmly.

“The security on this place wasn't too bad,” Steve pointed out, assured that the note would remain in place. “Better than the other three, at least, but they could do use some work.”

Natasha smirked and murmured low enough for Steve, “Why not fix security holes while stealing data.”

“Right up Fury's ally,” Steve snorted.

“Тебе бы поторопиться, Наталья.” The Soldier slipped in through an exit door, then dodged almost immediately as he spoke. The bullet Natasha fired hit the wall. “Reinforcements,” he added in English, and then, “Твои навыки проржавели.”

“Заткнись,” Natasha shot back as Steve tensed, grasping his Shield tightly between his fingers. The Soldier proceeded to ignore Natasha in favor of focusing on Steve.

“голубь,” the Soldier said as greeting. This brought Natasha to a stop, glancing between the Soldier and Steve before she let out a snort and went right back to focusing. “I am not here to fight,” the Soldier continued, ignoring Natasha aside from a furrowed brow of confusion.

“Yeah,” Steve said slowly, “you just show up right when supposed reinforcements arrive?”

The Soldier raised his arms and tilted his head. He had a smile across his lips under his mask. “I was already here. Watching you.”

“Ты ведешь себя жутко,” Natasha warned, but her lips twitched in faint amusement. The Soldier ignored her, even when Steve gave him an odd sort of look.

“You've been watching me?” he said, his voice lilting upward in shock and surprise.

“Is that a bad thing?” the Soldier asked, glancing to Natasha.

“Жуткий,” Natasha reiterated as Steve said, “Yes!” His voice pitched upward.

The Soldier furrowed his brow, licked his lips, and said, “But you...” then switched to Russian. “Когда ты дерешься, у меня дух захватывает.” His voice pitched downward, and there was a look to his eyes that gave Steve pause. Steve glanced to Natasha.

“Translation?” he asked. The Soldier smiled beneath his mask.

“He likes watching you fight,” Natasha said calmly, yanking out the drive from the computer. “I've got everything. We should go.” As soon as she said anything the Soldier, resting against the main screen at the back of the wall, quickly pulled out a gun from his leg holster and fired behind them. Steve whipped around in time to see someone armored fall down, dead.

“Shit,” Steve cursed, ducking down beneath the top of the desks with Natasha. The Soldier vaulted two rows and landed next to them just as more armored men arrived and opened fire.

“I told you,” he said. “Reinforcements.”

Steve gripped his shield tight and glanced up, trying to catch sight of how many there were. He counted ten before they started firing again.

“Ten plus,” he said sharply. The Soldier eyed Steve for a moment, before he reached up behind his back and crept over to one edge of the desk. Steve caught sight of a silver ball in the Soldier's hands before he rolled it towards the armored men.

“What are you--” Steve said and next he knew there was an explosion that caused him to rock forward and pull his shield up to protect against shattered debris and then the Soldier was right there, in front of him, metal arm grasping Steve by the bicep.

“This way,” he said sharply, and pulled Steve out towards the exit door he entered in by before the men with guns could respond. Natasha raced after them, crouched low to the ground. Steve caught sight of mangled bodies and fire and smoke before they were out in the fresh air.

Natasha burst after them, and they had a moment to catch their breaths. She was the first to notice it, the way Steve's brow furrowed and his lips pursed and his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. She snapped out a quick, “Freak out later, Rogers.”

“But they could have been SHIELD,” Steve snapped.

The Soldier was staring down over the railing at random intervals as he replied, “They're not.”

“How do you know--” Steve started.

“This way,” the Soldier interrupted, vaulting over the railing. Natasha gave Steve an exasperated look and tugged on his arm.

“Come on, Captain,” she said. “Let's go before more show up.” She followed after the Soldier, and with a curse when he heard voices Steve followed.

They landed on top of a dumpster, Natasha rolling off and Steve using the lid to bounce before he landed on the cement. The Soldier was already flush against the wall, peering around the corner towards the back of the building. He motioned for them to follow as he slipped around the edge, hugging the side of the building in the way that Steve could remember his Commando's doing back in Nazi Germany as they hunted down HYDRA bases.

The Soldier remained flush to the wall as they neared another corner, he peered around it and then pulled back and made a simple hand gesture of two and jerked his head toward the corner. Without a word he slipped back, allowing Steve to pull up to the corner and peer around the edge with Natasha crouched at his feet. They shared a look and Steve calmly removed his Shield from his back where he'd slipped it into place subconsciously. A quick nod between them and Steve darted out, Natasha quickly firing her ICER's as Steve tossed his Shield.

The Soldier remained behind, his firearm at the ready as he kept an eye on the battle. When one of the enemy fighters crept up on Steve's blindside he fired off on quick killshot. Steve glanced back at him in surprise before twisting to dodge a strike and delivering a solid punch to the idiot who tried to grab him while distracted. The Soldier smiled beneath his mask again, and assured that there were no more agents made his way over to Steve and Natasha who were staring at their bikes in confusion.

“Didn't we park out front?” Steve asked.

“I moved them when I noticed the incoming reinforcements,” the Soldier said. “Take the road there and you should get away without anyone noticing.” He motioned towards a little back path that was half overgrown by plant life.

Steve looked to the Solider, surprised. “Thanks. What about you?”

“My ride is a mile north of here,” the Soldier said. “Go, before you're made.”

Steve looked back at him, then nodded his thanks. Both he and Natasha got onto their bikes and the Soldier watched them leave until they were out of sight. Assured that they were gone he quickly dragged the two corpses as close to the building as he could get. Then he pulled out a knife and with narrowed eyes fished his bullet out of the skull of the one man he shot.

The Soldier licked his lips, stared at the bloodied slug, before he slipped it into his pocket. He glanced down at the mangled face of the HYDRA agent and, in a random lack of impulse control, pulled off his mask and spat on the dead man's face. He slipped his mask back in place and, as quickly and as stealthily as he could, made a break for the treeline where he pulled a remote from his back pocket and pressed down.

The building went up on flames, the earth shook, and the Soldier watched it burn for all of a minute before he turned and left.

* * *

Natasha and Steve returned to the not-SHIELD base both tired. Steve, more than Natasha, was confused about events but that mostly could be tied to Natasha's fluidity in the face of an ever changing situation. Steve didn't know what to make of it, to make of the Winter Soldier. He tugged off his helmet as they parked the motorbikes and scrubbed his hand through his hair.

“Try not to think about it too much,” Natasha said, placing a hand on Steve's arm. He looked to her, pursed his lips.

“They could have been SHIELD,” he pointed out. Natasha shrugged.

“He's an assassin, a killer,” she explained. “If Fury didn't specify me to use these ICER's how many potential SHIELD agents wound be dead from my hands alone? He doesn't have tech like this because his job is to kill, not save.”

Steve looked down. “And yet he got us out of there. He had a plan in play.”

Natasha sighed, closed her eyes. “He _likes_ you,” she said. “I don't know if that's good or bad, but he _likes_ you Rogers. Why look that gift horse in the mouth?”

Steve looked down at her, and shook his head. “Natasha...”

“The Winter Soldier is a ghost story, a myth, a killer and a murderer,” Natasha told him carefully. “He's not human to those who know and believe in him, but to you. For you. He acts more human than, than I could even imagine.”

Steve bit his lip. “All those deaths could have been prevented though,” Steve pointed out. Natasha closed her eyes.

“If it bothers you that much,” Natasha said, “then you might be in the wrong business.”

Steve frowned, slipped off of the bike, and headed inside. Did it bother him? The idea that they were SHIELD, could have been SHIELD, bothered him yes. Steve didn't want to kill innocents, and any of those men could have been innocent. Did killing bother him? Always. Even in the War he'd felt squeamish and sick, but he did what he had to to save lives.

“I've had enough of death for a lifetime,” he said to Natasha, finally, as they stepped past the door. “I want to avoid it, as much as I can.”

“You can't avoid it forever,” Natasha said. “People die, especially in this line of work.” She slipped past him, turned around, and gave him a smile. “Besides, it's kind of cute.”

“What?” Steve blinked.

Natasha smiled, secretively, and turned around.

“Natasha what does that mean?” Steve demanded, but she raced ahead with a faint laugh. “Natasha!” Steve darted after her.

* * *

The Soldier crouched low on the fire escape just outside Steve's apartment. He'd stood there, face pressed to the glass the first time he'd visited. He peered inside, curious to spite himself, at how the man in blue lived. It looked spartan, felt spartan even. Once, and only once, the Soldier had snuck inside and rifled through all the things that lay there.

That was until he found the canvas, the sketchbooks. He'd stared at the painting half-finished and swallowed hard, fingers carefully not quite touching the image. His eyes were wide and he'd felt the stirrings of something deep, down far that he'd buried, protected, _cherished._ A dream he'd chase in sleep, a thought he'd follow when awake.

The Soldier fled the apartment after that and didn't step foot inside ever again. Instead he'd watch Steve move about from the nearby rooftop every now and then through the scope of his rifle, never once stepping close. Until tonight. Tonight the Soldier crouched low, eyes scanning the road below for any sign of Steve's return. He'd already snuck inside early, hunted down ever single bug that SHIELD—that _HYDRA_ —had in place and calmly turned them off.

It wouldn't raise red flags, because when Steve wasn't there they didn't pick up anything anyway. They generally started recording when Steve entered the door, connected to a little motion sensor that was the first thing the Soldier disabled before he went about the apartment, steadfastly avoiding the bedroom until the very end. Then he'd returned to the fire escape, crouched low, watched, and waited.

Finally he caught sight of the familiar head of blond hair. For a moment the Soldier's breath hitched, his fingers dug into the metal grate as he watched Steve, shoulders slumped and legs dragging on the ground walk into the apartment building. The Soldier frowned, a part of him curled, recoiled at the sight while another, another enjoyed it. He both wanted to chase away what caused the slumped shoulders, and cause that look to appear on Steve's face. His fingers bent the metal of the grate before he released it with a hissed breath.

The Soldier returned his attention to inside the apartment, this time standing up and pressing his back to the wall next to the window. He listened, waited until he could hear the door open and Steve step inside. He heard the keys drop into a bowl by the front door, the lights flickered on. Steve sighed heavily, headed in the direction of the kitchen. The Soldier licked his lips and knocked, once, twice on the glass of the window.

Instantly Steve whipped around, body tense. The Soldier appreciated the tauntness of the others muscles for a second until with a curse Steve made his way over to the window, body lined in fury. That, the Soldier found, looked even better on him than the slumped despondence.

Steve pulled the window up, opened his mouth and said, “What are you--” but the Soldier silenced him with a quick finger up in front of his mask, the universal sign of quiet. He grasped the window sill, tilted his head toward the apartment. Steve backed up and the Soldier slipped inside, made a beeline for the door and crouched down. Assured that his disabling job remained in place, he stood back up.

“Quiet,” he told Steve, barely restraining himself from grabbing the others arm like he had earlier. “Your neighbor is SHIELD.”

Steve went stark pale for a second and grabbed the Soldier by the arms, pulled him back towards the bedroom, and practically shoved him into the wall.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

The Soldier tilted his head. “A gift.”

“What gift?” Steve demanded, the Soldier pulled out a drive and held it palm up for Steve to take. Steve stared at it warily, then looked back up at the Soldier. “How do you know she's SHIELD?”

The Soldier blinked but obediently answered, “When I am awoken I am given a dossier on persons of interest, in case I come across them during a mission. Agent 13 of SHIELD was one such dossier, noted for living next to one of the men on the Avengers list for security.”

Steve stepped back and loosened his hold, a little surprised by the automatic response. “Were you given a dossier on me?”

The Soldier pursed his lips, but said, “No. All I was given a basic description, blond, wears blue spandex, carries a shield, and part of the Avengers Initiative. Any information about you I have uncovered by myself.”

“They're not really spandex,” Steve said embarrassed and completely released the Soldier. The Soldier raised his hand, offering the drive again. Steve sighed and took it. “So what is this?”

“A gift,” the Soldier repeated.

“Aside from a gift,” Steve said, sitting down onto the edge of his mattress. The Soldier glanced around the room. His eyes bounced around, almost with nervous energy.

“It is what you've been looking for,” the Soldier eventually said, drifting over to the corner of the room that had the canvas. He stared at the face, more filled in, almost finished since the last time he'd seen it. Steve's head shot up almost immediately at his words.

“How did you get this?” Steve demanded.

“I have access,” the Soldier replied, his fingers not quite ghosting the image. “I know who has access,” he amended, then asked, almost in a whisper, “Who is this?”

Steve got to his feet and tugged the painting away, gently but insistently putting it into the closet. “No one,” he said sharply. The Soldier looked up at him, gaze searching, before he looked away and started for the door. Steve sighed. “His name was Bucky,” he said. “He died seventy years ago. He was my best friend.”

The Soldier paused, looked back at Steve. One hand at his side clenched into a fist, but he said nothing. Steve didn't look over at him, just placed a hand on the closed closet door.

“Thanks,” he said. “For the...gift.”

The Soldier nodded, and then left without a word. Steve rolled the thumb drive over in his hands, traced his fingers along the carved Cyrillic lettering with a furrowed brow. He didn't know what it said, couldn't read it let alone understand it, but he had a feeling it was that some word the Soldier called him by.

_голубь_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. ~~Голубка – golubka –~~ my dove /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "голубь / golub'"  
>  2\. ~~Могу ли я отказав ему удовольствие? – Mogu li i͡a otkazav emu udovol'stvie? –~~ Am I denying him fun? (can I refuse him pleasure?) /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Я мешаю ему веселиться? / A meshai͡u emu veselit'si͡a?  
>  3\. ~~Я вам не повредит – I͡A vam ne povredit –~~ I won't hurt you /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Я не причиню тебе вреда / I͡A ne prichini͡u tebe vreda"  
>  4\. ~~увидеть? – uvidet'? –~~ see? /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Видишь? /  
>  5\. Нет – niet – no (fixed a capitalization error)  
> 6\. ~~Русский в порядке – Russkiĭ v pori͡adke –~~ Russian is fine (russian ok) /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Можно и по-русски / Mozhno i po-russki"  
>  7\. Почему ты здесь? – Pochemu ty zdes'? – Why are you here?  
> 8\. Кто? – Kto? – who?  
> 9\. Да – da – yes (fixed a capitalization error)  
> 10\. ~~Не понимаю? – Ne ponimai͡u? –~~ I don't understand? /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Не понял? / Ne poni͡al?"  
>  11\. ~~Он выглядит скучно. – On vygli͡adit skuchno. –~~ He looks bored /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Он выглядит скучающе. / On vygli͡adit skuchai͡ushche."  
>  12\. ~~Они слишком слабы для него. Не стоит его время. - Oni slishkom slaby dli͡a nego. Ne stoit ego vremi͡a. –~~ They are too weak for him. Not worth his time. /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Они слишком слабы для него. Не стоят его времени. / Oni slishkom slaby dli͡a nego. Ne stoi͡at ego vremeni."  
>  13\. ~~Пусть он определить, что. Он не будет ценить вас решающим для него. – Pust' on opredelit', chto. On ne budet t͡senit' vas reshai͡ushchim dli͡a nego. –~~ Let him determine that. He will not appreciate you deciding for him. /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Пусть он сам с этим разберется. Он не будет благодарен за то, что ты решил за него. / Pust' on sam s ėtim razberetsi͡a. On ne budet blagodaren za to, chto ty reshil za nego. "  
>  14\. ~~Тогда что я должен делать? – Togda chto i͡a dolzhen delat'? –~~ Then what should I do? /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Тогда что мне делать? / Togda chto mne delat'?  
>  15\. Это то, что я знаю. – Ėto to, chto i͡a znai͡u. – This is what I know.  
> 16\. ~~Почему бы вам не поговорить с ним? Может быть, вы найдете что-то делать, что он оценит? – Pochemu by vam ne pogovorit' s nim? Mozhet byt', vy naĭdete chto-to delat', chto on ot͡senit? –~~ Why don't you talk to him? Maybe you'l find something to do that he will appreciate? /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Почему бы тебе с ним не поговорить? Может быть, ты придумаешь занятие, которое он оценит? / Pochemu by tebe s nim ne pogovorit'? Mozhet byt', ty pridumaesh' zani͡atie, kotoroe on ot͡senit?"  
>  17\. ~~Русский – Russkiĭ – Russian~~ /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "по-русски / po-russki / in Russian"  
>  18\. Романова, Наталья Аляовна – Romanova, Natal'i͡a Ali͡aovna – Romanova, Natalia Alianovna  
> 19\. Наталья – Natal'i͡a – Natalia  
> 20\. ~~Возможно, вы захотите торопиться, Наталья. – Vozmozhno, vy zakhotite toropit'si͡a, Natal'i͡a. –~~ You might want to hurry, Natalia /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Тебе бы поторопиться, Наталья / Tebe by potoropit'si͡a, Natal'i͡a"  
>  21\. ~~Ваши навыки ржавый – Vashi navyki rzhavyĭ –~~ Your skills are rusty. /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Твои навыки проржавели. / Tvoi navyki prorzhaveli."  
>  22\. Заткнись – Zatknis' – Shut up  
> 23\. Ты ведешь себя жутко – Ty vedesh' sebi͡a zhutko – You are being creepy (You are behaving terribly)  
> 24\. Жуткий – Zhutkiĭ – creepy  
> 25\. ~~Вы захватывает дух, когда вы боретесь – Vy zakhvatyvaet dukh, kogda vy boretes' –~~ You are breathtaking when you're fighting (You are breathtaking when you're struggling) /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Когда ты дерешься, у меня дух захватывает. / Kogda ty deresh'si͡a, u meni͡a dukh zakhvatyvaet."


	4. Chapter 4

He stared at his face. Stared at the faint line of stubble, knife clenched in his left hand. He'd never shaved himself before this mission. His technicians normally kept up this maintenance, not him, but this was the first time he couldn't even raise the knife further than what it was. His right hand shook, clenched into a fist as he stared at himself.

 _Bucky._

The Soldier swallowed heavily. The name held so much meaning, yet meant nothing at all.

_His name was Bucky._

He swallowed heavily, cast his gaze down in thought. The Soldier couldn't remember this Bucky, couldn't remember anything except what HYDRA wanted him to remember. Yet now, now things had come back. Things from before. Things with Наталья, with the Red Room in Russia. They were bits and pieces, scattered and broken, and brought with them feelings, memories, sights and sounds that often made no sense. He could remember vaguely, even, when HYDRA made him. Remember pain and fire and ice.

He could not remember Bucky, and for some reason that more than anything made his chest burn, made his head hurt. The Soldier sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. He tried to close his eyes, but they wouldn't listen. They darted back up to his face, traced the lines he'd seen on canvas. His right hand shook, his eyes burned.

_His name was **Bucky.**_

With a feral yell the Soldier punched the glass, he punched it repeatedly until he couldn't work up the strength to do so anymore. Until he collapsed, knife still clenched in his left hand. For the first time, for the very first time, the Soldier felt _hate._ Hate to HYDRA, hate towards himself, hate to this knowledge that he had a _name_ and apparently a _best friend_ which were all human things.

For the first time the Soldier hated that he wasn't human anymore.

* * *

Steve looked down at the drive he had in his hand, baseball cap tugged low. He couldn't walk outside without being recognized these days, and so often when he didn't want attention he took to dressing 'incognito'. He sighed, looked up and around and then back down at the drive which he shoved into his pocket. Calmly he started walking, keeping his head bowed both in thought and to quell anyone from taking notice.

He didn't know how long he walked, or where he was going. One moment he was standing outside his apartment building, and when he finally did deign to look up he found his feet had brought him to the memorial. Steve swallowed, hard. He looked over the names, skimming through them, until he caught the one he never wanted, never expected to see.

Sargent James Buchanan Barnes.

“We promised each other we'd come back,” Steve said. He didn't have to look behind him to know he had a shadow.

“You and Barnes?” Natasha asked, calmly stepping up until she was even with Steve.

“We promised each other,” Steve said, “that we'd return together. Victorious against Schmidt, against HYDRA, against the world. I'd get married to a great dame, we'd travel for maybe a year, and maybe I'd have a few kids, name him uncle after that.”

Natasha frowned. “Just you?” she asked.

“Bucky wasn't...the type to settle,” Steve admitted. “Said he'd only ever have one true love, and that was living.”

“Sounds like a great guy,” Natasha smiled. Steve shook his head.

“He was a jerk,” Steve muttered. “Half the trouble I got into as a kid was because of him.”

Natasha raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Trouble? You? America's darling sweetheart? I can't see it.”

Steve laughed, although it was a short, almost breathless sound. “Contrary to popular opinion I did not, in fact, lead a charmed life,” he pointed out. “But then you already knew that.” Natasha didn't need to reply to that. Steve sighed, glanced at her. “So, my neighbor. The Nurse. She's SHIELD.”

Beside him Natasha stiffened. It was a minute thing, combined with a slight widening of her eyes. She glanced up at Steve. She looked down, warring with what to say for a moment.

“How did you find out?” she asked eventually, choosing not to deny his accusation.

“He visited me,” Steve said. Natasha knew he could be honest to a fault, but this she did not expect.

“The Winter Soldier,” Natasha murmured. “Of course.”

“Why was SHIELD having me watched?” Steve countered, turning from the memorial to look at Natasha properly. Natasha sighed.

“Why else, Rogers?” she asked. “You're a guy whose been frozen for seventy years, in a time so very different. The All American Hero. She's there as much as for your protection as to ensure you adjust well.”

“The world hasn't changed much,” Steve pointed out. “I mean sure, the political climate is different. There's better medicine, better health care, better almost everything. And technology has changed, a lot, but it's not. Difficult to adapt to.”

Natasha pursed her lips. “You know, for a ninety-something you're surprisingly well adjusted.” Steve barked a laugh.

“I went from five foot four practically dying to six foot two practically un-killable in a few minutes,” Steve said. “You learn to adapt pretty quickly when a change like that happens.” Steve smiled at Natasha's laugh. He looked down to his feet, scuffed his shoes into the cement, and then sighed. “His visit wasn't just to inform me about my watcher.”

Natasha leaned against the memorial and crossed her arms. She gave him a look that pretty much demanded he come out with it. Steve stuck a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out the drive.

“Apparently he wanted to give me a gift,” Steve said. “The information we were looking for.”

Natasha snatched the drive from him, she stared in surprise at the word etched along it, before she shot Steve a look. “How the hell did he get this?”

Steve swallowed. “You remember how you told me that most of the community who thinks he exists views him as a weapon?” Natasha nodded. “He said the same thing,” Steve said softly. “Except he tacked on HYDRA as the ones behind the trigger.”

Natasha breathed out heavily, a muffled curse under her breath that Steve didn't understand. “How long have you known?” she asked.

Steve ran his tongue over his teeth. “Since Nick got shot.”

Natasha cursed again, louder this time. She appraised him. “He's not a lost cause you can save, Rogers.”

Steve snorted. “You're the one who said he's strangely attached to me, acting more human for my benefit.” He looked at her. Really looked at her, catching how she shifted from foot to foot minutely, how her trigger finger twitched. “There's something your not telling me.”

“I don't think your—” she started, then amended, “I'm not ready to tell you yet. It's from...before.” She stuffed the drive into her pocket and crossed her arms.

“But you will tell me,” Steve said. Natasha nodded. Steve accepted that with a short breath and a brief closure of his eyes. He took in another, deeper, more solid as he returned his gaze back to her. He knew that look. “I'm not being reckless, you know.”

Natasha shook her head. “I think you know exactly what you're being,” she said. “And I don't think it's healthy.”

Steve pursed his lips. “Then we'll have to disagree.” He started to walk away, hands stuffed in his pockets, back hunched down with his head pointed to the ground.

“You can't save him, Steve!” Natasha shouted after him.

“We'll see,” Steve said back, only under his breath. He figured Natasha knew what he would say anyway.

* * *

Nick paced back and forth with a frown on his face. The arm that had been shot rested against hist stomach, still healing. He could start therapy to regain motion in about a week but the doctor they had ordered no movement otherwise.

_“Sir, it just doesn't make sense. Everywhere we look its all SHIELD.”_

“Maria, run the numbers again,” Nick said. Maria sighed and shook her head.

“I've run then nearly a hundred times, Nick,” she said. “They haven't changed. By all rights at least half of our buildings, our headquarters, and our network of data centers should be HYDRA. It's highly unlikely we would have hit all of the SHIELD buildings only, even.”

Nick pursed his lips. “Phil, your thoughts?”

 _“HYDRA knows we're coming,”_ Phil said, his face taking up the screen of Maria's computer. _“It's the only explanation, they know and they've been cleaning house.”_

 _“They're tryna make you look bad, boss,”_ Clint put in, his face overtaking Phils for a second. _“Make you look crazy.”_

Maria's face pinched as she added, “It makes sense, Nick. They haven't even launched Insight yet, and you know that was schedule for launch almost a month ago.”

“And there are no news on the delay?” Nick questioned.

“No,” Maria said,

 _“If I may, sir?”_ May's face appeared this time. _“Maybe we should quit looking for HYDRA information within SHIELD data and instead look for HYDRA agents within SHIELD that we can exploit.”_

Nick shook his head. “We have no intel with which to begin with on that front. This team was pulled together to find that intel so that we could begin purging SHIELD.”

 _“You mentioned Rogers and Romanoff ran into SHIELD agents wearing pins,”_ May pointed out. _“If I remember correctly we never had a reason to hand out SHIELD styled pins. You in fact said that it would advertise our agents too easily. What if HYDRA is using that very same idea to identify their moles?”_

 _“May's right,”_ Phil sighed. _“We wouldn't expect HYDRA to proudly wear the SHIELD eagle.”_

 _“It makes a sick sorta sense,”_ Clint agreed. _“Make your agents look like they're super proud to be a part of SHIELD. Especially since y'know you think almost all of the upper levels have been infected with the HYDRA disease. This way they know one another, and yet they get away with it cuz they're strong enough to take on competition that the pins mighta been bringing.”_

Nick snorted. “I hate it when you three talk sense together. Maria?”

Maria tugged the computer towards her, clacked a few keys carefully minimizing the communications program. She began to run some numbers, her gaze focused, before she nodded. “It'd make sense,” she said.

Natasha smiled, leaning against the door frame. She looked to Nick, to Maria, and decided to interrupt. She already knew Nick and caught her presence earlier, but now seemed as good a time as any to interrupt.

“Well I've got something even better than a pin equals HYDRA.”

Nick turned. “And what my that be, Natasha?”

Natasha tossed the drive Steve had given her onto the table, walking forward until she could place her hands on the surface.

“How about all the intel we were supposed to be getting?” she countered. “A little...puppy dropped something off for Steve. He in turn gave it to me.”

Maria grabbed the drive, frowned at the Russian carved into its side, as Nick demanded, “Who?”

“Winter,” Natasha answered.

Nick groaned. “Is he breaking programming?” he asked, his tone implying that he doubted it was so simple as that.

“I don't know,” Natasha said. “But he's attached to Rogers.”

Nick scowled, “Is this attachment dangerous?”

“I don't know,” Natasha replied, her hands clenching into fists. “I really don't know.” Nick nodded.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes with his fingers rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Keep an eye on him,” he said. “If it starts to look dangerous, you intervene, am I clear? We can't lose Rogers.”

Natasha nodded once. That was what she had planned on doing anyway.

* * *

Steve leaned against the wall, watched the proceedings inside the room. His gaze darted from Sam, to the veterans who shared. He stood, silent. He didn't want to intrude, didn't feel he had a right to. Steve knew he wasn't without his own baggage, but sharing wasn't a thing that had been overly encouraged in the 40's, and even now he often found himself adverse to it.

The only person he shared things with was Bucky. Steve swallowed.

Sam was a good man. He could see it in the kind way he addressed the veterans before him. Steve could see it in the way the man joked with him. Hell even the way Sam was just happy to help, this one Steve knew was a kind soul, deep down. War hadn't torn that from him, and Steve doubted it would.

When the meeting was over Steve slipped away, down the hall. These people didn't need to see him, to be reminded of what they weren't. The Super Soldier serum didn't make him remarkably well adjusted although he played at it, because the media seemed to think most days he was Super Human which, Steve knew, wasn't far off. These men and women who fought for their country would look at him, and see the pure, well adjusted soldier who didn't need help and that, Steve figured, wouldn't help them. They didn't need that reminder.

He waited until the hall fully cleared before he approached Sam. He tried to keep himself open, not slouched, with a congenial smile at his lips. Steve tried to appear happy. He knew he failed when, as he greeted Sam with a smile, Sam gave him this look. This eyebrows raised piercing look that said, _I know what you're tryin' to do, pal, and it ain't workin'._

“You know I figured you'd stop by weeks ago,” Sam said, calmly folding up all the cards.

“I've been busy,” Steve shot him a wry grin.

“Sure you have,” Sam nodded. “That boss of yours keeping you on your toes I take it.”

Steve laughed, “Never a dull day.”

“Yeah,” Sam grinned. “Still working with that girl, the red head?”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck with a smile. “Natasha? Yeah.”

“Think you could hook me up?” Sam asked.

Steve looked shocked. _Hook Natasha up?_ He could imagine the look she'd shoot him, imagine the horrifying things she'd subject him to (Clint's offbrand humor and _Tony_ ) and shook his head. “I'm pretty sure she's taken,” he said, instead of voicing the horrors that came to mind.

“You sure? Damn,” Sam sighed. “All the good looking ones.” He finished stacking up the cards and looked Steve over. “Hey, you wanna grab a bite to eat? I'm famished, and you look like you haven't had a decent meal all day.”

Steve shook his head, a grin on his face so large it almost hurt. “Is that how it is?” he asked, teasing back to their first conversation.

“That's how it is,” Sam shot back, a smile to his own face.

Steve laughed and decided why not. Sam wasn't going to try and kill him, and he could use a few minutes time just not thinking about Bucky, about the Soldier, about Natasha and the lies and HYDRA. He licked his lips, face only briefly indecisive before he said, “You know what, sounds good. Let's go.”

* * *

He watched, from a shadowed corner, ball cap down on on his head, hair in front of his face, a bandanna wrapped around the lower half of his face in a parody of his mask. He had on a hoody instead of his leather and kevlar, and jeans that were loose, looser than the BDU's he normally wore. His left arm was wrapped tight, fingers covered in gloves to hide the brilliant shine of the metal.

The Soldier had followed him from his morning walk, to his meeting with Наталья in a graveyard. He'd slipped from them then, searching for something, something, he hadn't been sure what until he found it. A single, white headstone, a single name. He licked his lips then tugged the bottom one between his teeth, turned, and walked away. The Soldier tried not to think of the second headstone, placed next to it, with another name that he recognized, understood. He headed back towards their meeting point, hands stuffed in his pockets.

He followed Steve to the building where there were men and women who had fought and come back broken.

The Soldier likened himself to being broken, too. A broken weapon because he kept ignoring orders, kept putting the mission off for _this_. Whatever this was. He craved, craved the silence and yet, somehow, he craved this chaos more and it hurt. He grit his teeth, hunched down, and slipped into an unused room. From here he watched, he waited. When Steve met the strange man who gave him smiles and laughter the Soldier had to look away. Had to clench one fist in his jeans and bite down on another.

The Soldier bowed, curled into a ball. His blood was on fire again, this strange encompassing feeling that made him want to step out of the room and wrap his metal fingers around and _squeeze_. He couldn't do that, though, it'd bring attention to his presence and he'd have trouble completing his mission and HYDRA wouldn't be pleased. When HYDRA got displeased the Soldier became useless and that, that he couldn't be.

Never again.

It took time, like the last time where he ground his gun to scrap, but the Soldier came back to himself, curbed the dangerous urge with reminders of what he was. A weapon. A tool. This, this emotional output was a malfunction. When his mission was over it'd be wiped from him, making him new again. He hissed a breath through his teeth and straightened.

He barely caught sound of the interloper getting Steve agreeing to grab a bite. His hands clenched into fists, his jaw snapped shut and his teeth ground together as his nostrils flared. The Soldier narrowed his eyes, slipped out of the room, and followed.

The _hell_ was _his punk_ going on a date with some, some, ( _lounge lizard spook who don't know when ta--_ ) he didn't have a word for it, but he knew he didn't like it.

* * *

Natasha flopped back on her bed, phone pressed against her ear as she stared up at the ceiling.

“So, you remember when I told you about Winter?” she asked, looking over her fingers and pursing her lips. She could do with a manicure, actually.

 _“Yeah, why, what's he got to do with anythin' Nat?”_ Clint asked back. He was over in Srilanka looking down a sniper scope double checking the guard routes with the simple bluetooth device pressed into his ear. Natasha could see him with the displeased frown that half wanted to quirk up into a smile as he kept his fingers far away from the trigger of the gun he held distastefully in his arms.

“I told you he's back in town, right?” Natasha asked, instead of remarking upon what she knew Clint had to be doing. She had a small smile to her face.

_“Well yeah that's why we're doin' all this clean house bullshit, right?”_

Natasha hummed noncommittally and rolled over onto her stomach.

 _“What? Oh don't tell me he hit you on again,”_ Clint groaned. _“Fuck don't tell me you're actually thinkin' of it!”_

“No,” Natasha denied. “He's not interested. I doubt he even remembers.”

 _“Well good,”_ Clint grumbled, _“because stealin' you away from him once was a pain in the ass.”_

“Careful, Clint, your sounding a little possessive there,” Natasha teased, kicking her legs up behind her as she reached for the television remote.

_“Oh stuff it. I have every right to be possessive and you know it.”_

Natasha laughed. “That's not why I brought him up, bird boy.”

 _“Seriously? Fuckin' Tony,”_ Clint grumbled.

“It suits you,” Natasha said.

_“Fuck you.”_

“While the idea of phone sex is wonderfully arousing,” Natasha's voice grew a bit deeper at the thought, licking her lips at how she could make Clint come undone over the phone. Given his little hitched breath he knew exactly what she was thinking. “That's not why I called either.”

 _“Then get to the point!”_ Clint whined. _“And don't tease a guy, Nat. It's cruel.”_

Natasha laughed again, flicked on the tv with a press of a button. “Fine, fine. He's been stalking Steve.”

There is a pause, then a yell of, _“Wait, WHAT?!”_ followed by cursing, the distinct sounds of a weapon being dismantled and running. _“Please tell me there isn't a hit out on our All American Pie.”_

“Would that make this better?” Natasha asked. She could here Clint pause to think even as he was running.

There is a rough, _“No!”_ as Clint realized what Natasha was implying and Natasha laughed.

“You should see him speaking,” she said. “His tones gets all sappy and he turns the most horrifying of phrases into these adorable little moments.”

 _“What is with,”_ Clint pants, pauses for a breath and Natasha could hear him fire an arrow, _“you Russian spies,”_ another arrow and an explosion, _“and Captain Tight-Ass?”_

“It's a fantasy, Clint,” Natasha laughed. “I doubt it would ever happen. Besides, you know I'll always come right back to you.” Clint doesn't respond but Natasha isn't worried, she can hear the combat all the way on her end and it makes her smile.

 _“Yeah,”_ Clint eventually said when it all goes quiet. _“I know. Love you.”_

“Ты нужен мне,” Natasha replied. She looked and sounded pained by the admission, and she knew logically she always was.

Clint murmured, _“I know.”_

They hung up at the same time.

* * *

Sam took them to a little Mexican joint he knew with a laughed, “Hope you don't mind Mexican?”

Steve shook his head with a smile, and a laughed, “No complaints from me.”

The place wasn't crawling with people, which helped Steve relax. He didn't like walking out in public much anymore with how easy he got recognized. When he did walk the streets of DC he was usually hunched down with a ball cap tugged as low as he could get it, staring at new and old buildings, categorizing all the changes in the world to what he knew. They stacked up, often left him breathless as to how much the world was _different_. Even the back alleys were changed.

Sam walked up to the hosts stand and talked to a hostess in low words. Steve turned his head away, stepped back and tried to focus on something else to give at least the facade of some privacy. He could hear still plain as day how Sam requested an isolated booth, caught the motion towards Steve and the little half-smile Sam had on his face.

The Hostess led them to a back booth in a somewhat darkened corner, gave them their menus and left them to order. Steve looked it over, debating what he wanted to eat. Sam only glanced at his and put it down.

“You ever have Mexican before?” he asked, curious.

“I've had a lot of different things since coming back,” Steve replied with a smile. “Tony took us out for schwarma after New York, actually.”

“Really?” Sam blinked. “How was that?”

“Interesting,” Steve shrugged. “But then food has changed.”

Sam laughed. “Yeah, they used to boil everything you said.”

Steve set down his menu, “said, “They sure did,” with the half-shake of his head and the smile on his lips. The waitress came by, got their drinks and their order, and then took off with the menus. Sam pursed his lips once she was gone, looked at Steve who was glancing around the restaurant in curiosity.

“Steve,” Sam said, carefully. “I know some of what your going through.”

Steve just sort of froze for a second, then turned back to Sam. He caught the serious face on what he hoped would be a friend and shook his head. He put on that winning smile, said, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Sam groaned. “C'mon man, everyone knows your story,” he pointed out. “You can't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Look, I. We've all lost someone. We all deal with the grief, the guilt.” Sam breathed out slowly. “You're not alone, Steve.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Steve said, a bit more firmly as his smile slipped from his face.

Sam sighed. This wasn't working right, so he turned his head to the side and thought, for a moment, of Riley and what it took for him to open up about the guilt of what happened. He wasn't lying when he said people knew Captain America's story, knew that the man had lost his SiC, lost Bucky Barnes the best friend. Most people forgot that for Steve Rogers it'd barely been three years, and even then that wasn't nearly enough time. It'd never be enough time.

Sam lowered his head. “I lost my wingman, my best friend, Riley,” he said carefully, “over there.” He swallowed. “We were flying a night mission, a standard PJ rescue op.” Steve swallowed heavily. “Nothin' we haven't done before,” Sam continued, gave a brief sort of half-grimace half-smile, “until an RPG knocked Riley's dumb ass out of the sky.” Sam looked down, then looked away. “Felt like I was only up there to watch.”

Steve swallowed, face pale. “Sam, I--”

“Believe me,” Sam said. “I've got an idea of what you're going through. And, and while it doesn't ever stop hurting, it sure as hell gets easier to move on. Talking about it,” Steve gave him a look here and Sam raised his hands, his smile coming a bit easier, “hey, hey, I know what that sounds like, but it's true. Talking does help.” He grimaced, added a, “Sometimes,” and a wry sort of smile.

Steve didn't quite smile, his face a bit pained at Sam's admission, at how well Sam had read him but then, they'd both been in war, they'd both lost someone close, and so Steve figured perhaps that was why, better than anyone, Sam spotted it. He sighed, said, “I don't,” backtracked because he was going to sound insensitive and he didn't want to do that and instead said, “Thanks.”

“I know its not the same,” Sam said, correctly guessing what Steve was going to say. “I mean, hell, if half of what is speculated is true...”

“What?” Steve looked up, confused and almost ashen sick. “What's speculated?”

Sam grimaced, cursed his loose tongue, and said, “You know what, it doesn't matter. I mean I don't want to force you out of the closet if you're even in it.”

“What does that mean?” Steve demanded, leaning forward.

“Wait, what do you mean what does that mean?” Sam blinked, shocked. “Haven't you been given the highlights? Don't Ask, Don't Tell? The LGBT movement?”

Steve shook his head, brow furrowed, confused. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said instead, lips pursed.

“Fuck,” Sam hissed between his teeth. Now he felt like he really blundered this. He bowed his head, palmed his face for a second, then sat up, said, “I don't know if I can explain it good enough, so. So when you get home, google it. Please. And if you have any questions after that just ask.”

Steve frowned, opened his mouth to ask what Sam meant, but then their food arrived and so he fell silent in favor of eating. He honestly felt starved.

* * *

He paced outside the building, debated actually going in and slitting the bastards throat who thought to take Steve out for a meal, then took that thought back with a grimace, imagining how Steve would look, and paced some more. He had to make a point, though, he wasn't sure what that point was. He paced some more, hunched his shoulders, clenched his fist.

Finally the Soldier breathed out, a steadying, fortifying breath and stepped into the restaurant.

“I'm meeting a friend,” he said to the hostess, nodded to the back corner after quickly taking stock of the room. “It's a surprise.” When she continued to stare at him, stare at his face, he sighed. “I have scarring, I'd prefer not to be stared at,” he added with a scowl. He didn't, but it was the easiest way to have his face hidden and not be called on it.

The hostess laughed, nervous, said a quick, “Oh, go ahead then,” and the Soldier slipped past her and moved towards the booth that held Steve and the, the, he didn't have a name, just a narrowed eye'd stare at this churning of acid in his gut. He walked until he was right next to them, stood there for about a full minute while they ate and didn't talk.

It was Steve who noticed him, hands shoved into his pockets and back hunched slightly with a baseball cap tugged low. Steve's eyes went wide, in shock, and the other beside him blinked.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

The Soldier had to withhold himself from reaching out and tugging this, this ( _remember!_ ) interloper up by his neck. He swiftly moved his gaze back to Steve he looked pale, but reached up and tugged him into the booth with a hissed, “Sit down.”

The Soldier sat mechanically.

“Do you know him?” the interloper asked, and Steve raised a hand to quiet him. The Soldier couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips, hidden behind the bandanna, at that.

“Have you been following me?” Steve demanded, voice low. The Soldier tilted his head.

“I take it from your tone that this is not something that is allowed,” the Soldier stated calmly.

“Yeah, it's creepy and borderline illegal,” Steve said lowly.

“A lot of what I do is illegal,” the Soldier pointed out, then amended, “All of it, actually.”

The interloper glanced between them, asked, “Should I call the police?”

“No!” Steve snapped, but he glared at the Soldier and not at the other. “It's okay, Sam. Right?”

The Soldier shrugged, said, “I'm not here for anyone.”

“Except me,” Steve pointed out so the Soldier corrected, “I'm not here for a mission.” Steve sighed, scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Budge over, I need to. Use the bathroom,” he said with a sigh. He needed to clear his head, more like it, but the Soldier willingly slipped out of the seat to let Steve out. Steve added, “Stay here, please,” under his breath and the Soldier calmly sat back down and watched Steve leave.

Sam blinked, surprised at the interaction, but looked over at the Soldier who stared at him with narrowed, furious eyes.

“Uh, you didn't by any chance lie to the good Captain, did you?” Sam asked, just a hint of nervous.

“No,” the Soldier said. He pulled out a thin, butterfly knife from his pocket and toyed with it, leaning back in the booth. Sam swallowed, but kept his nerves otherwise under control.

“Good,” he said. “What do you want then.”

The Soldier smiled. “You're good. You recognized that I didn't walk in for him.” Sam nodded and the Soldier nodded back.

“I can recognize intimidation when I see it,” Sam pointed out.

“Good. Then this will go easier,” the Soldier replied. “Touch him, come on to him, do anything I see that I don't like, and I will slit your throat in your sleep. Hurt him and I will do much worse.” At these words the Soldier leaned forward, held the knife loosely but firmly in a semi-threatening manner.

“The overprotective big-brother talk?” Sam asked, and when the grip tightened he sighed. “The jealous boyfriend talk. Does he know you think of him like that?”

The Soldier glanced away, then back, then away again. He had a snarl on his face.

“He knows me,” he said simply, because Steve did. Steve just didn't know it yet.

“Really?” Sam asked, skeptical.

The Soldier growled, glanced away, glanced back, glanced away again. He leaned across the table, towered over Sam, snarled, “He _knows_ me,” and tugged down the bandanna for a brief second. His eyes were dark, infuriated, and Sam sucked in a sharp surprised breath. Sam only recognized him because he'd seen the photographs, visited the memorial, and not five minutes ago had Steve pulling out a beaten picture from his wallet, the only surviving photo he'd had.

The Soldier tugged the bandanna back up and leaned back int the seat, playing with the butterfly knife again.

“Does he know its _you?_ ” Sam asked, his voice slightly higher. “How the hell are you even alive?”

The Soldier shrugged, said, “You tell him, and I'll make you beg for death,” coldly. He didn't know how to answer Sam's other question, didn't even know the details of what happened to him, himself, so he kept silent.

“He has a right to know,” Sam pointed out.

The Soldier shrugged again, but gave a pointed glare in Sam's direction as Steve stepped out and returned. He got to his feet.

“I hope you enjoyed my gift,” the Soldier said, and turned to walk out of the establishment.

“Where are you going?” Steve asked, a frown on his face.

“Research,” was all the Soldier said. He glanced back, looked at Sam, and felt himself smile before he turned right around and left.

Steve shook his head, looked to Sam. “You okay?” he asked. Sam laughed.

“Yeah,” he said, a bit breathlessly, a bit wide eyed. “You have one crazy ass stalker.”

Steve grinned and shrugged. There wasn't much he could say about that. Sam stared at him, sighed, and closed his eyes. He knew, somehow, that this was just one more notch into how deep down a rabbit hole Steve was. He wondered if there was any dragging him out and back into safety. Sam doubted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian words (hopefully)
> 
> 1\. Голубка – golubka – my dove   
> 2\. Наталья – Natal'i͡a – Natalia   
> 3\. Ты нужен мне – Ty nuzhen mne – I need you.


	5. Chapter 5

At first the Soldier didn't realize just how dangerous things for him were growing. He didn't realize how much at risk he was putting himself in for something a simple as a _fight._ Only now, as the days went on, he wondered if it were truly about getting another fight out of Steve or about something else that eluded him. At either way the Soldier found that it'd grown easier and easier to ignore his mission, to brush aside the parameters he'd been given. Every time he'd sneak into Fury's not-base he found it easier to ignore Fury, to ignore the urge to _kill, finish it_ , until he wasn't slipping into Fury's room anymore. Instead he made for the computer, searched out Steve's next set of orders, and left.

The Soldier shifted, feeling an ache from being still for so long. He kept his gaze trained through his snipers scope, waiting for the moment Steve and Наталья rode in to complete the sweep of the grounds. He licked his lips underneath his mask and rolled his shoulders slightly. The vantage point he'd found was up on the top of a munitions deposit, this particular SHIELD station housing just a bit more than intelligence. The deposit was shaded by a rather large tree, providing ample cover if it were daytime, and even more cover in the dead of night.

The ground was maybe four feet away, sitting on a hill overlooking the rest of the base. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Potomac, and in the distance the Triskellion. This particular mission had a high-risk factor, being so close to SHIELD's main infrastructure, and the Soldier was worried. He nibbled at his lip, shifted lightly again just to get feeling back into his legs.

Still no sign of Steve.

“Где ты?” the Soldier hissed between his breath. He was entirely focused on finding Steve, being sure that Steve arrived safely, that the Soldier didn't even notice the booted feet on the roof of the deposit until they crunched right down by his face. His eyes widened behind his goggles, and he turned sharply to attack whoever was there.

A knee slammed down into his diaphragm, expelling any air he had the minute he moved. He swallowed and forced the reflexive follow up punch to a halt at the familiar face of his weapons handler.

“Now what do we have here?” Rumlow hissed. He reached out, pulled away the goggles and the mask, and grabbed the Soldier by the chin. “Report.”

“This is for my mission,” the Soldier said quickly.

“The mission is Nick Fury,” Rumlow said coldly. “Not them.” He gestured in the darkness.

 _Steve._ His eyes glanced over, caught sight of the familiar blue. _He's here. He's okay._

“Mission parameters state surveillance until repairs are completed,” he said monotonously. “Repairs are taking longer than expected.”

“Are they?” Rumlow questioned, reaching down to grasp his damaged leg. He squeezed and the Soldier grit his teeth. He barely let out a grunt of surprise at the sudden jolt of pain. “Seems like all I'm hearing is that HYDRA's weapon is useless.”

“I'm _not!_ ” the Soldier snarled. Rumlow gave him a look, squeezed a bit harder, and _Bucky_ let out a sharp curse. “My mission is guarded by Subjects: Black Widow and Steve Rogers. Surveillance is necessary to uncover weakness,” he spat out quickly and Rumlow let go of his leg.

“Is that so?” Rumlow questioned.

“Yes,” the Soldier said, tense.

“So HYDRA's asset isn't malfunctioning?” Rumlow quarried. The Soldier froze.

 _Malfunction?_ Yes, there was malfunction. He knew there was malfunction. Rumlow narrowed his eyes.

“I repeat, is there any malfunction?”

The Soldier swallowed, but did not answer. If he said yes, they would drag him back, wipe him clean, and he'd forget Steve. He'd forget desires, wants. He'd forget being _Bucky._ He'd forget his _name._ If he said no, it would be a lie to the ones who hold his leash. That would invite pain, suffering, and further setbacks. Lying to his masters was not allowed, he'd had that rule beaten into him long ago, before he could even remember. Like every other parameter he's given, it's something he can't quite fight. Not yet, perhaps not ever.

“I see,” Rumlow muttered, reached out, and squeezed the Soldier's leg hard. The surprise tore a quick, short yelp out of him before Rumlow let go and left him with a burning feeling up his leg. “I can't break this leg, obviously,” Rumlow said coldly. “That would slow down the timetable. However punishment is still due for the failure of _not_ reporting malfunction.”

Rumlow grasped the Soldier by the hair and physically dragged him off of the roof of the deposit. The fall _hurt_ in part because the pull on his hair hurt and falling four feet without getting a chance to brace yourself just _hurts_ period. The Soldier grunted but didn't fight back. Fighting back meant _more_ pain and failure, and that the Soldier couldn't face. Not now, not when he was almost healed enough for that fight. Rumlow chuckled, pulled him up by his hair, and he could feel his scalp on fire, the roots threatening to give until the Soldier got his knees up under him to support his weight so it wasn't all Rumlow holding him up.

“It's time for another lesson, I think,” Rumlow said coldly. _Bucky_ wanted to spit in his face, and he almost did until he caught sight of five other STRIKE members standing in the shadows.

Rumlow threw a punch at the Soldier's face, letting go of his hair, allowing the Soldier to fall back from the force of the blow. The Soldier pulled himself onto his hands and knees only for Rumlow's foot to connect to his face again, and then to the side of his ribs. It wasn't the side reinforced with metal and steel, but the side wholly flesh and blood. This was followed by a hard press to the Soldier's juggular with a foot and then that foot became a knee as Rumlow knelt down and smiled, coldly, face inches from the Soldier who struggled for breath.

“You follow my every command,” Rumlow hissed out, “and I'll allow you the freedom to finish the mission as you see fit _in five days._ Am I clear?”

“Yes,” the Soldier gasped.

“What are your new parameters?” Rumlow growled.

“Follow every command, confirm death in five days,” the Soldier said although the words were breathless and barely-there. Rumlow smiled.

“Good.” He let up, ordered the Soldier onto his knees, and said, “You know what to do.”

The Soldier did.

* * *

When they arrived at the base, mostly deserted, for a moment Steve thought he caught movement up in the corner on a hill overlooking the building. Natasha quickly drew his attention back, especially when there didn't appear to be anything else going on, with a carefully timed, “Rogers, pay attention.”

Steve turned his head back towards Natasha and gave her a grin.

“Sorry, thought I saw something up there,” he motioned towards the little stonework building on the hill. “Thought it might be a sniper, but there's nothing.”

“You mean you thought it might be your stalker,” Natasha pointed out. For a moment there was a barely there smile that Steve caught although it was quickly replaced with a frown.

“No, I mean I thought that maybe SHIELD has wised up and placed a sniper in play,” Steve shot back. A little part of him tingled though at the thought of the Winter Soldier being here, keeping watch over them. He wasn't sure why, but it made him feel _safe._ The thought of eyes on his back was a familiar one.

Bucky used to do that all the time, actually. Steve breathed out slow, pressed down the sudden pang of guilt and sorrow that wanted to cripple him. He breathed out slow again, killed the engine of his bike, and shifted his shield from his back onto his arm.

“Let's go,” he said, giving Natasha a nod. They started towards the building. “No multitasking this time,” Steve added as an afterthought.

Natasha rolled her eyes. She entered in an access code, then paused when it came back negative and quickly began to hack the control panel. “You need to get out more, Rogers,” she pointed out as she worked. No multitasking, he said? She could do work like this in her _sleep._

“I had lunch with Sam just the other day,” Steve said, quickly swinging his shield up to knock out the first guard they'd come across. Natasha round housed the second and they dragged both into a spare room. “I get out.”

Natasha gave him a considering look, which Steve saw. He promptly shook his head, said quickly, “ _No,_ Natasha.”

“It could be cute,” Natasha murmured.

“ _No,_ ” Steve said back sharp. Natasha pouted and they left the room to hunt down other guards or men around. They split up when the hall went into two different directions and systematically cleared the first floor. Occasionally Natasha would pipe up with what Steve thought she thought were coy little comments over their headsets.

“He's para-rescue right? Why don't you go skydiving together then?”

“ _No._ ”

“He's already taken you out somewhere, that means its your turn, right?”

“ _Natasha._ ”

“You know I'm sure he could teach you a thing or two, he seems pretty learned from what I saw.”

“Oh my god can you _just focus on the mission!_ ”

It went on for the five minutes it took to clear the first floor and meet up on the second. There Steve shoved Natasha into a wall, face serious as he slammed a hand over her mouth, and spoke lowly, “I am not interested in Sam. Understood?” Natasha just licked his hand, drawing a surprise and somewhat disgusted look as Steve jerked back. He quickly rubbed his hand off on his pants. “Childish,” he said.

“Child,” Natasha shot back with a wide smile, pointing at herself. It was a joke aimed towards their age gap which Steve got readily enough. She tilted her head. “You're not interested in any of the girls I offer.”

“They're not my type,” Steve pointed back. They weren't. “One of them had a lip piercing,” he added as an afterthought.

“And a tongue piercing,” Natasha said brightly. “Imagine how that would feel?”

Steve flushed bright red and just took off. “I am not having this conversation,” he said quickly and proceeded to run into five men, all of which he dispatched in a manner of seconds.

“There's no need to be a prude,” Natasha said over the comms, and Steve could hear about three men go down on her end in quick succession.

“It's not being prudish,” Steve mumbled back. “It's called decency.”

Natasha scoffed, round-housed another guy and they met at the computer room. “Decency,” she said blithely, “went out of style in the sixties.”

* * *

He stumbled onto the railing, cursed at the noise he made. He feared being found out, being caught here with his mask off and his face bare and his breath smelling like alcohol. He feared that his injuries, healing slowly but steadily, would prevent him from leaving before he was caught. He feared those big blue eyes training on his face and feared the results of what that would do to him.

Bucky worked on the window, worked it open because he couldn't stand outside all night. Someone would see him, call the cops, and then he'd be in shittier luck that this. Or Agent 13 down the hall would realize that there's someone outside the window, someone _stalking_ the precious dancing monkey and then he'd be in the shitter even worse.

Bucky hissed out words in Russian, Romanian, German and _English_ until the window rose up and he could slip inside. He didn't bother with silencing the recording devices. He didn't care to anymore. HYDRA knew already about this obsession, this broken malfunction in his head so what did it matter trying to hide it from them? He stumbled his way through the kitchen, ran into the counter with a curse. It was sharp and in English and Bucky had to slap his fist into his mouth to stop from making any more noise.

 _Punk's a light sleeper_ he had to remind himself, in his head because only there was it safe. He didn't know how he knew that, exactly, just that he did. He knew a lot of stuff he didn't understand, didn't know where it came from this knowledge. He figured more and more out every day even when it _hurt_ to do so.

He realized in mid struggle between the kitchen to the bathroom, where all the antiseptic and the med-kit were kept _(always so predictable, aren't you?)_ that he'd been referring to himself as _Bucky_ instead of the Solider. It came and went ever since he'd learned his name _(James Buchanan Barnes, Sargent, 325570—Steve?)_ but now it seemed to be thoroughly stuck.

Bucky stumbled into the bathroom, knocked the soap and toothbrush off of the counter and froze. He waited for the telltale signs of someone waking up and sighed in relief when there was no change in the noise around him. He stared at his face in the mirror, didn't bother flicking on the light because he could see well enough as is. His nose was crooked, his lip swollen and bloodied. He looked like he got in the loosing end of a fistfight in a back alley of Brooklyn protecting his _punk_ , whatever that meant.

With a grimace he straightened his nose, hissed a breath between his teeth, and pulled open the cabinet. The Soldier _(no—no—James Buchanon Barnes—Bucky Barnes—I am—)_ rummaged for antiseptic and bandages and a little white box he knew had to be there. He found bottles of pain killers, higher strength _prescription_ strength and he pulled those open and dried swallowed a couple. He didn't care what they were, only that he needed them.

He crouched down and rifled through under the sink before he found the med-kit burried in the back. He fished that out, set it on the counter, and then sat himself down on the toilet. He pulled out strips of gauze, tore it to shreds, and then wrapped his face and his nose. It hurt, stung like a bitch, and it brought to mine the punches and kicks and the laughing hiss of _(such a **good** toy for HYDRA)_ words he couldn't comprehend, mind too fogged by pain.

Bucky pulled off his jacket and began to dabble the antiseptic on his cuts, made by a knife happy Rumlow and his pack of goons. He bound each cut with a careful strip of gauze if they were larger than an inch and deeper than half that. There wasn't any thread or needles inside the kit so he couldn't sew himself up yet. He'd get around to that later, probably after he'd stumbled back to the hotel more fuzzy headed than he was even now.

Carefully he bound and wrapped up his chest, which probably had a broken rib now considering how strong a kick Rumlow and his STRIKE team could deliver, but at least it wasn't a broken leg. He could remember clearly that he had only _(no, no I can't do this, please don't make me do this)_ five days before he'd be extracted and punished for mission failure. Five days to complete the mission he'd be given without the repairs _(healing? it's called healing, for humans its healing)_ necessary to do what he _wanted._ Bucky wanted to cry, curse HYDRA from taking away from him yet another thing, another _desire_ only this time they didn't even _know._

With a grunt he tied off the bandage around his chest and then blinked when he felt something wet dribble down his chin. He reached up, worried for a moment that he started bleeding again except he forgot, dried blood was practically caked onto his face.

“глупый,” he hissed between his teeth and got to his feet. He turned on the sink, quickly scrubbed away the crusted blood on his face, on his hands. He couldn't do anything about any other wounds, and in the grand scheme of things they didn't matter much. His face looked like a beaten mash of flesh and it made him want to _laugh._ He looked like himself for the first time in ages, if Bucky discounted the hair which oddly suited him.

Carefully, he turned off the sink, listened because wouldn't rushing water wake sleeping beauty? There was no change in the environment so he sighed, examined his face for any new cuts, any new bleeding spots, but everything was the same as when he came in. He poured antiseptic on the open cuts that lined his face, the ones he'd missed, and then stumbled out of the bathroom.

There was this gnawing in his gut. He didn't know what it was except this urge to look around the corners and check back alleys and be certain there wasn't a face a _(a fat-head wise guy with too much guts god what's he done now)_ dying someone he knew deep down in his psyche. It tied to with the silence that a light sleeper should have woken up too, that is the lack of it. Bucky hadn't been quiet, and he knew it, and it churned in him but right now he _didn't care._

Perhaps his brain was too broken to understand the _need_ to keep himself hidden was a priority. He moved down the hall, into the bedroom that he'd been dragged to before, the one with the picture and his name where everything hurt and didn't make sense. He came into a room as dark as pitch, but he still caught the shadows on the walls and the lump in the bed. Bucky stumbled over, almost crashed into the wall twice and eventually chose to use it as a guide instead. He made it to the edge of the bed before he crashed to his knees and just stared.

In the dark he couldn't see much, not the darkness that permeated this room. He did catch flaxen hair and a baby face peaceful in sleep with the faint sound of snoring.

“голубка,” he breathed, reaching out his flesh and blood hand to shaking touch a face he knew better than his own. He wasn't sure how, but he did. “Прекрасный мой, голубь ты мой, единственный мой, сердце мое.,” he chanted to himself under his breath unsure where these words were coming from. Bucky felt shaken with all that had happened and all that was before him.

 _Five days._ He wanted to scream, to sob, to curse, but he just kept repeating and chanting,  “Прекрасный мой, голубь ты мой, единственный мой, сердце мое.,” over and over to himself and to this man before him. There had been something, a fire in his mind that wasn't like being wiped but more like a burn of a memory he couldn't reach. None of his memories of _before_ were viable anymore, he could tell that with how they remained so far away form him, buried and precious and _gone._

Yet something pulled him closer, something wanted him here, to do _what?_ He didn't know, just had this need he couldn't describe. The Soldier leaned over _(he was Bucky damn you **Bucky** )_ and suddenly it made a sick sort of sense, what he wanted to do. What Bucky wanted to do. He pressed a kiss to the slumbering lips and it felt like _(home oh gods he was **home** )_ some indescribable thing until the sick in his stomach threatened to spill over his lips and he pulled back.

Steve breathed out a broken, “Bucky,” in his sleep and the Soldier scrambled and then bolted. He didn't care at the noise he made he just had to get _out._ He ran from the room and then through the kitchen until he reached the window and the fire escape. He slid down ladder after ladder and then fled into the darkness his breath on fire and his cheeks _burned._ There were tears in his eyes and he didn't understand _any of it._

In the apartment Steve jolted upright, finally woken up by the loud crashing sounds of someone fleeing. He slipped out of his room, but by the time he found the open window whoever had been there was long gone. The only thing he could feel was lips on his and the memory of kissing Bucky back on Coney Island in a dark corner behind the concession stand in 1943.

* * *

Natasha always got back late. It wasn't because she went out to do anything other than work, more because she often stayed behind after debriefing with Fury when Steve left to give her honest assessment of his psyche. Some days were better than others, some days he responded better.

“Does he know, sir?” she asked, curious that night.

“Know what?” Nick questioned back.

“That homosexuality isn't something that most people scorn these days,” Natasha asked. “We told him about that, right? About how two men and two women are now legally able to marry in the state of New York?”

Nick sighed, pressed his face into his hands. “No, Natasha. We haven't told him.” When she opened her mouth to reply, brow furrowed and lips turned down, Nick continued, “It wasn't just not done in the 1940's. It was outright illegal to have relations with other men or other women.” He stared at Natasha long and hard. “The world was a very different place, then, and we don't need a Captain America who looks at people in disgust for who they are.”

“And not warning him does what?” Natasha questioned back.

“I have my reasons,” Nick told her, and she left it at that. Nick had a plan in play, she knew that, and yet the idea that Steve didn't know....

“What if he likes men?” she asked, quiet.

“It's highly unlikely,” Nick shot back, and that was the end of the conversation.

She replayed the thought in her mind when she opened her door. She could remember his sudden seriousness, a sort of desperation that didn't seem right on his face as he pressed her into the wall with his hand over her mouth. It was more, she thought, than just the idea of her pairing him off with another guy. There had been something there, she was _sure_ of it. It made her wonder, was Captain America gay?

“Well there goes my chances,” Natasha said to herself as she shut the door. It wasn't like she minded, actually, because the thought had been nothing more than a fantasy she cooked up while bored and hunting for a girlfriend for the blond mass of muscle. She dropped her bag and combed her hand through her hair.

She almost missed the sight of the Winter Soldier sitting on her bed, staring down at his hands. He was oddly still, but then he'd always been good at just not moving even when he was full of energy. Natasha tensed.

“Winter,” she said.

“That's not my name,” he rasped, and looked up at her. For the moment he lacked the facemask she was used to seeing him in, and for the moment she felt like she was back in the Red Room with this strange enigmatic man standing before her, telling her to, _“Повтори!”_

“Okay,” Natasha said cautiously. This felt eerily familiar. “Then what is your name?”

“James.”

Natasha swallowed. This entire situation _was_ familiar. It reminded her of the last few days she'd had with him, and she wondered what was going on this time to bring about this change.

“You remember,” she breathed. He stared at her, and nodded. “How much?” she asked.

“My name,” he said. “My rank. My number.” His hands clenched into fists and he pressed them into his eyes, leaning forward onto his knees. “You. The Red Room. My conditioning.” His shoulders actually shook and Natasha breathed out a heavy, surprised breath.

That was _more_ than he remembered with her. She felt surprised and terrified as to what this meant, exactly. She stepped closer, moving like he was some sort of munitions dangerously close to going off.

“James,” she said. “Why are you here?”

Like she thought he seemed to just suddenly explode into movement. One moment he was sitting the next he was up and pressing her into a wall. There were lips and teeth and sharp breaths that stole from her at the sudden, unexplainable action. Until it just stopped and he went still, head pressed into the wall next to her breathing heavily. He pulled back and then pressed his head forward a few more times with gritted teeth.

“James?” Natasha asked.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he said, voice thick with confusion like he didn't know what that _meant._ Natasha felt suddenly sick. “Bucky. Barnes,” he said through gritted teeth. Natasha felt _more_ than sick.

“Oh god.”

Natasha looked at him, and he looked back at her, and that's when she understood. This man she'd known as Winter, as James, had come to her because she was the only one who could _understand._ She was the only one who could help him make sense of what was going on in his mind as she'd been there. This was his last attempt, his last token chance for something he couldn't name or didn't understand and neither did she.

It felt like the night he left her all over again, only a thousand times worse. It took a second but then was was pressing his face to her neck, tears in his eyes and his back heaving. He was muttering half-broken phrases in Russian and English with a mix of German here and there and broken bits of Romanian. They slid down the back of the wall, Bucky heavy in her arms and Natasha breathed out. She whispered reassurances in Russian.

Natasha knew better. She knew this was goodbye. She could remember clearly what happened last time, as he wrapped her up, whispered his name, whispered the horrifying truth.

_“I won't be able to go with you. They'll take me back, say a few words, and then burn fire through my mind until I can't even remember what I've done, what I've felt, who I was anymore. They won't let me leave. They'll never let me leave. I'm forever theirs, Natalia, and not even you can save me. No one can. Not anymore.”_

* * *

It took an hour, but eventually Barnes tired himself out until he was asleep on her bed. Natasha didn't know what to do. She stared at him, shirtless and bandaged and broken. His face was a complete mess and she couldn't be sure what had happened, but she bet whatever it was, was the final trigger for all of _this._

Barnes looked like he'd been through a hell Natasha didn't have a name for, and she knew without a doubt that he was heading right back towards it. Her hands shook. She hadn't felt this vulnerable in a long, long time. Natasha reached for her phone and without thought dialed Clint.

 _“Hey lovely,”_ Clint said not even five seconds later. _“Didn't we talk just the other day?”_

Natasha didn't say anything. She wasn't sure what she should say, or even why she called Clint really. She stared at Barnes' face and remembered a time where he looked peaceful when he slept. Now he looked broken, tortured. There was none of the peace she could remember in him, but a man who didn't understand anything.

 _“Nat? Nat are you there?”_ Clint said, tone getting more worried by the second.

“I'm here,” Natasha replied, voice soft.

 _“Okay, what's wrong,”_ Clint questioned. When Natasha didn't say anything he continued, _“I know that voice Nat. What happened, and who do I need to kill?”_

“No one,” Natasha said. “It's not...you remember how I told you he had a name?”

 _“Who?”_ Natasha could see Clint's brow furrow in thought and it made her smile. _“Wait, you mean the winter guy? Shit, Nat, what's bringin' him up again? I swear you're givin' me a complex here.”_

Natasha smiled, she almost laughed. “He. Something happened to him, Clint,” she said instead, swallowing. “Something broke through his programming.”

 _“And you know this how?”_ Clint questioned, the paused, then answered himself. _“Shit he's there isn't he. Fuck, Natasha! You know what a danger he is!”_

“He's not,” Natasha said. “Not right now. Not like this.”

_“And the fuck is that supposed to mean?”_

“Clint he remembers,” she said. “I don't. It's like the last day I had with him all over again only worse.”

Clint was quiet. Natasha bit her lip. _“Worse how,”_ Clint asked.

Natasha sat down on the ground and stared up at the bed. “He's Bucky Barnes,” Natasha said. “Clint he's Bucky Barnes.”

_“...fuck.”_

Natasha looked down at her hands. She whispered, “I don't know what to do.”

* * *

When morning rolled around Natasha was fast asleep, but Bucky woke up feeling worse and better for all that had happened. He sat up in the bed and looked over at her and sighed. Carefully he pulled the blankets from the bed and wrapped them around her before he stumbled over to the bathroom. His brain hurt something awful, probably a mixture of alcohol consumption and actually crying because fuck it, nothing made sense.

He wondered if it ever made sense before all this _(no, not really)_ and shook his head. Carefully he unwound the bandages, useless now that the most of hits cuts and bruises were healed. Only his ribs hurt like some sort of dame went and shoved him out the window into the asphalt. For a moment Bucky thought he could remember such a thing happening, but he figured it was a figment of his imagination because anything from _before_ , before the conditioning, before the sensation of falling and cold, is gone.

The ribs will take another two days to heal, given their current rate, which means they weren't broken but probably bruised. Bucky clenched the sink, leaned forward in thought. That gave him two days before the programming kicked in. He had four days left to finish the mission. He pressed his head into the porcelain of the sink and breathed out.

He _hated_ getting attached like this. He _hated_ remembering bits and pieces of who he was and what he had been to people. This wasn't the first time he'd drawn back his sense of self, overrode his programming for a moment of time. Bucky knew it was the first time he was _Bucky_ in nearly seventy years, certainly, but this wasn't his first rodeo.

They'd drag him back by force if he didn't comply. Bucky knew he'd comply.

Calmly he scrubbed his face clean of any dried blood he'd missed, grabbed a towel and hand washed the cuts and bruises that were healed but he didn't clean off last night. He thought of Steve and how he still wasn't sure who or what Steve was to him, just that Steve was something to Bucky at some point lost to time. He thought of the kiss, of how furious he was when he saw others around him. He wondered if Steve had a girlfriend.

_(didn't they talk about that once?)_

Bucky breathed out through his nose, at least pleased the darn thing wasn't broken again. Doing any sort of breathing through a broken nose was such a fucking bitch to handle. Once he'd wiped himself down as best he could _(wait, where was the armor?)_ he slipped out from the bathroom, dropping the bloodied towel into the wastebasket as he did so. He moved around the room, silent like a cat, until he scrounged up a pad and pen. Carefully he scribbled a letter.

The words were in English. Bucky frowned. Normally he wrote things in Russian, because Russian was familiar. Russians were the ones who found him, who nursed him _(handed him to Zola, killed him, broken him)_ and the language felt more familiar than English on most days. His hand clenched the pen tight enough to break it into two.

English was _Bucky_ he remembered, and breathed out through his nose. Carefully Bucky tore his note free. He moved around the room, paused, and then walked back to Natasha.

“Sleep well, princess,” Bucky said, placed a kiss to the crown of her head, and then walked back towards the door. He pulled out one of his knives from the back of his pants and stabbed the note into the door itself. It was a waste of a good knife, but he had more back in his room. Besides, this way at least Natasha wouldn't miss it.

Bucky wondered when he started thinking of her as Natasha and not Natalia. He wondered when he started thinking in English instead of Russian. He decided he didn't care.

* * *

What Sam said to him wouldn't leave. Especially after being woken in the middle of the night to an intruder and the feeling of lips on his and the memory of _Bucky._ Steve had to breath out a sigh as he hunched down and stared up at the building before him at the same time. He didn't _have_ a computer. Tony tried to give him one but it confused him more than the phone ever did. Instead if he wanted to learn something he went to the local library, or asked Fury if he could use one of the older computers at SHIELD.

Today it was the library, and Steve felt somewhat strange being here to look at this information Sam had mentioned. It felt like it should be something dirty, or wrong. Steve wanted to be at SHIELD instead. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Now wasn't the time to feel squeamish about something, not when his mind weighed heavily on topics he didn't want to think about. He had some idea what Sam meant when he said LGBT, although the words were unfamiliar without context. He had guessed based on what Sam had been trying to imply, about him and Bucky.

Steve thought they'd been careful. Steve thought no one could _know._ The idea that Sam could tell terrified him because that meant someone else probably noticed too. Steve swallowed and sat down heavily in front of one of the computers, slightly more advanced than he was used to, and used the library card information to log on. He licked his lips, pulled up Google, and started to search.

The dirge of information surprised him. Steve had always thought it was _illegal,_ that it had still been that way. He felt almost breathless in his surprise, and then wondered why he'd never noticed. Was it because he didn't _want_ to? Sometimes, sometimes he had wondered way back when if he and Bucky hadn't been born in the wrong time, the wrong place. They'd seemed so different. Steve small and scrawny and never giving in to a fight, always so accepting of the people around him even when they were beating him to a pulp. Bucky, witty and sarcastic, who always had his back, always over protective and _always_ brought him back from the brink of death with tears and sharp promises.

Steve felt oddly chocked up. He logged off of the computer. He had to get out of here. Moist eyed and feeling hurt in a way he couldn't describe, this pain in his chest that he didn't want to deal with. Couldn't deal with actually, he could remember Peggy berating him for sitting in a broken bar with broken bottles sobbing his heart out because _fuck_ he didn't save Bucky, he should have tried _harder._ Steve forced himself to breath out, breath in, as he walked quickly from the library.

Outside Steve fumbled for his phone. He found Sam's number and, rubbed at his eyes to wipe away the tears that threatened to fall, and hit call. When he heard Sam pick up his voice wavered just slightly.

“Hey, Sam? Are you free?” he asked.

 _“Yeah Cap, you need something?”_ Sam asked back. Steve knew he could recognize the tone, Sam was good at that. Sam was good at recognizing things Steve didn't want anyone to know. It reminded him a bit about Bucky.

“I'd like to...have that talk,” Steve said. “If you don't mind.”

 _“No problem,”_ Sam said back, and Steve could practically hear the smile. His heart felt a bit lighter. He breathed out heavily. Maybe, Steve thought, it'd be good to talk.

* * *

Bucky _always_ followed Steve. He couldn't remember where, why, or how, but he knew that following Steve had been something he'd done since forever. Perhaps that was why it seemed so natural to be drawn to the blond haired man in blue when he couldn't even remember his own name. Perhaps that was why he felt the draw to fight him, to be around him. Perhaps that was why whenever he saw another man around him he felt this surge to hurt, to pull Steve away and lock him in a room where _no one_ would ever touch him again.

Bucky sat in a tree. He didn't bother to hide himself, not this time. It wasn't worth it to hide himself anymore. He had his mask firmly in place, and the snipers scope in his hand which he used only periodically because he could see inside the house well enough without it most times. He couldn't hear what was being said, but then Bucky also knew how to read lips. He had the distinct feeling that it'd come in handy before, and not in the missions HYDRA had him performing.

He wore his leather jacket, designed to hide his arm from view when he's not on a mission or the mission required more stealth. He didn't have his normal armor. Bucky had the vaguest recollections of having left it behind in Steve's bathroom, and _fuck_ if that wasn't embarrassing enough. He didn't like the jacket normally, often left it behind because it made his arm feel too stiff and something that wasn't quite pain. It was a discomfort, and he knew if he wore the jacket long enough the discomfort would be damaging.

Bucky breathed out through his nose and licked his lips. He focused his attention back on the house and what was going on inside. Steve and Sam were discussing _him._ He found it strange, he found he hung on every word with wide eyes that he could read. He didn't know anything that Steve talked about. Steve spoke of a place called Coney Island _(kisses stolen behind buildings)_ and of some sort of last ride before Bucky enlisted _(wrong, wrong, he was **drafted** damn it)_ and something about heading to the future.

_(he had two dames on his arms and little Steve seemed so lost, so determined to not leave Bucky behind that **fuck** if it didn't piss him off and make him want to smack some sense into the boy. couldn't Steve see he didn't want this? he didn't want to leave the sickly skinny rake alone because Steve would die without him he knew he would he **knew** it)_

Bucky grasped at his head. He wanted to groan at the pain, the thoughts that swirled around and then at the emptiness that resounded like a hollow. It hurt to not remember, it hurt to remember. It hurt to not remember remembering and to remember not remembering. It just hurt. Almost as soon as he had a thought, a tangent in his head connected to Steve and what Steve was talking about, it slipped through his fingers like a sieve.

The memories were lost. Bucky knew that. He knew that all he had were fragments and broken bits of a broken mind, that anything before conditioning was gone and irretrievable. He'd get flashes, sensations, words, but nothing ever concrete. The only thing that stayed firm was that he _knew_ Steve. He'd known Steve in ways he couldn't even fathom. The way Steve spoke about him, about their life together, told him all that he needed to know.

When the afternoon rolled around Steve and Sam stopped talking. Sam was in the kitchen, throwing something together. It looked so horribly domestic and brought to mind something, something that he couldn't quite grasp. Bucky wondered if he had done this for Steve before.

_(no, his cooking sucked, he knew that much)_

Steve looked out the window. Glanced up in the tree Bucky was perched in. He'd done this about fifty times over the past few hours. He knew Bucky _(the Soldier)_ was there. Now, as Sam cooked, Steve slipped outside the sliding glass door and walked until he was under the tree, staring up.

“He's making dinner for three,” Steve said calmly, turning around to press his back against the tree. Bucky said nothing. “I haven't seen you eat while up there, figured you could use something.”

Bucky bit his lip. “Would it be okay if I took my jacket off?” he asked. He felt overheated. “And borrowed a shirt,” he added, a bit embarrassed.

“Since yours got left in my bathroom?” Steve practically smirked and damn did that do things to Bucky he hadn't thought possible. “I brought a spare.”

Bucky blinked. “You're an ass, Голубка.” The familiar Russian word fell from his lips like a taste of fine wine. He hadn't realized he could still use Russian like it was natural to him. Bucky breathed out through his nose.

“You're the one who broke into my apartment and left a mess,” Steve pointed out. Bucky winced.

“I wasn't in my right head,” he said, instead of saying half of the other things he wanted. “I had meant to return back to my base of operations.”

Steve shrugged. “You hungry?” he asked instead. “Like I said, Sam is cooking for three.”

Bucky debated actually going down and eating. He didn't like the thought because his mask would have to be removed and he didn't want Steve to see his face. He didn't want Steve to _know._ He swallowed.

“I'll take you up on that shirt,” Bucky said instead, and gracefully dropped from the tree. Steve nodded, led him inside.

“You eating?” Sam asked, looking up from whatever he was frying.

“I don't,” Bucky bit the words off before he could say them. Steve slipped out of the room.

“Hell you need to eat,” Sam pointed out. “You can do it from the closet for all I care and make conversation through the door.” He watched Steve leave and then said, quiet enough for Bucky to hear but not Steve, “You need to tell him.”

Bucky scowled. “It'll break him,” he pointed out. “You don't get what him knowing will _do_ to him.”

“He _needs_ to know,” Sam said back.

Bucky licked his lips, and laid out what he knew would happen if he ever told Steve who he was.

“If I tell him, if he finds out, it'll tear him apart,” he said, the words coming out in a broken rush. “You don't _know_ him like I do,” and fuck if that realization doesn't _hurt_ because Bucky is certain he knows Steve better than anything in this world, just not _how._ “If I tell him he'll be devastated. It'll mean the _one thing_ he fought against most, the _one thing_ he saved me from _won._ They got what they wanted. They made me a weapon, a tool for their bidding. They stole me right out from under him and there was _nothing he could do_ as they broke me at the seams.”

Sam swallowed. Bucky continued, voice cracking just a bit, “If he knows he won't stop them.” Bucky bit his lip. “I _need_ him to stop them.” Bucky breathed out, ragged. “I need him to stop _me._ ”

Sam stared at him, hard, and said in a whisper, “He still deserves to know.”

Steve came back with that shirt. Neither said anything about Bucky, or how he stood right there under Steve's nose. When Sam gave him food, Bucky hid in the closet and ate in the darkness.

* * *

When Natasha woke up, it was already mid-afternoon and Bucky was long gone. She found the note pinned to her door. She read it. She wanted to cry. Natasha was stronger than that, though, and she knew Bucky had given her something far more precious than anybody could realize. Carefully, she crumpled the note up, then lit it on fire before she left. The words seared into her mind, reminding her of what she had to do.

_Princess,_  
 _I have four days left. My mission is Nicholas J. Fury. Stop me._  
 _James_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU MARVEL FOR A COMIC ADAPTATION OF THE MOVIE! Now I know what his dang serial number is! 32-557-038 STUPID SEBASTIAN STAN WITH HIS MUMBLINESS.
> 
> Russian words (hopefully)
> 
> 1. ~~Голубка – golubka –~~ my dove /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "голубь / golub'"  
>  2\. Наталья – Natal'i͡a – Natalia  
> 3\. Где ты? – Gde ty? – Where are you?  
> 4\. глупый – glupyĭ – stupid  
> 5\. ~~Моя прекрасная моя голубка, моя одна мое сердце – Moi͡a prekrasnai͡a moi͡a golubka, moi͡a odna moe serdt͡se –~~ My beautiful, my dove, my one and my heart(My beautiful my dove, my one my heart.) /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Прекрасный мой, голубь ты мой, единственный мой, сердце мое. / Prekrasnyĭ moĭ, golub' ty moĭ, edinstvennyĭ moĭ, serdt͡se moe."  
>  6\. ~~Сделайте это снова! – Sdelaĭte ėto snova! –~~ Do it again! /// CHANGED thanks to SDCDCI to "Повтори! / Povtori!"


	6. Chapter 6

Natasha let out a slow breath as she stepped into the base. She had no doubt Fury would be pissed as hell that she'd waited this long to even so much as report this to him, but she knew she had the right idea. Beside her stood Phil, May staying on the Bus to keep an eye on the other members of Phil's team, and on her other side stood Clint. They were here for more than support, more than just back up to face what Natasha knew undoubtedly would be coming.

Together the three of them walked down the halls, into the room that Nick would be planning missions with Hill over a table, or discussing the data that the Winter Soldier had given them and its potential for being a red herring.

“Look, see, this is saying Sitwell was on the Star,” Maria said, pointing her screen. “Which doesn't make sense because this is the official data from SHIELD on Sitwell's placement. He should have been nowhere near the Star.”

“I agree, it's fishy,” Nick said back just as softly, “however he could be nothing more than a decoy. We'd have to bring him in for questioning and Sitwell is high up enough to have his presence been noticed if he's being questioned. Even if we make it look like a routine check, whoever's at the top of this chain'll know better.”

“You still don't think Pierce has anything to do with this, do you?” Maria said softly. Nick pursed his lips.

“I know that man better than I know anyone,” Nick muttered back. “I highly doubt it.”

They continued to mutter plans and thoughts back and forth to one another. Phil shifted his stance and coughed when it became obvious they weren't going to be outright noticed. Clint fiddled with one of his arrows while Natasha tried to look unassuming and failed. Nick looked up, a frown across his face.

“To what do I owe this visit?” he questioned, arching one eyebrow. “After all aren't two of you supposed to be on ops _out_  of the country?”

Natasha fidgeted for a brief second, and then straightened her spine. “I recalled them,” she said clearly.

Nick scowled. “And why,” he said, tone pitching just enough to show how annoyed he was, “did you do that, Agent Romanoff.”

Clint scowled. “Fury Nat's got some pretty interestin' intel you might wanna listen to,” he snapped out. “Somethin' pretty damn important, actually.”

“It requires a bit of show and tell,” Phil agreed, giving Nick his patented 'I might have screwed up' smile.

Nick looked between the three of them. “Can this wait?”

“No,” Phil said, taking point from ease of long practice being Natasha and Clint's handler. “It really can't. We're already on a time crunch as it is.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Nick straightened up. Maria's lips pressed together in concern.

“It means that the Winter Soldier plans to complete his mission tomorrow,” Natasha said shortly. Nick's gaze darted to her.

“You know this how?” he asked.

Clint reached out and grabbed Natasha's hand for support when she seemed to hesitate. Phil likewise placed his hand on her shoulder. She glanced to him, and he gave her a short nod. Another glance to Clint, who looked serious with his face blank in a way only Natasha could understand, Natasha sighed and steadied her nerves.

“He told me.”

Nick didn't have anything to say. He just stared, almost uncomprehendingly, at the three before him.

“I told you he wouldn't believe it,” Clint said with a smirk, shifting enough to cross his arms. Natasha sighed.

“Why,” Nick said slowly, unable to wrap his mind around the thought that they had  _forewarning_ , “would he tell you that.”

Phil squeezed Natasha's shoulder, a gesture that Nick didn't miss. Natasha hunched slightly, and for a moment she looked physically pained. She closed her eyes.

“I was a product of the Red Room,” Natasha said, which Nick already knew. “My handler, the one unmade me and remade me into who I am, was not Red Room.” Nick frowned. “At first I didn't know his name. He was nothing more than a tool used to train us and break us....” Natasha wrapped her arms around herself, her mind casting back.

“It's okay,” Phil said, and Nick seemed to nod for her to continue. Clint brushed his hand against hers, but kept his gaze solely on Nick with narrowed eyes.

“His name was James,” Natasha said finally, looking up. “We didn't know where he came from, we didn't know who even agreed to loan him to the Red Room. I only know his name because....” She trailed off and shrugged. Nick sighed.

“What does this have to do with our supposed forewarning?” Nick questioned.

Natasha licked her lips. “James...I wasn't the first person to learn that name,” she said, haltingly. “I wasn't the first person he...” She shook her head. “He told me, once, that they liked to toy with him like this. Let him remember bits and pieces and steal it away, prove to him how utterly powerless, how much of a machine he was to them and nothing more.”

Clint thought Natasha was laying it on a bit thick. Every word was true, certainly, but they didn't need to gain Nick's _pity_  for the guy. He fidgeted.

“Nat,” he said, lowly, “you should get to the point.”

Natasha glanced to him, and nodded. “Yes. I.” She closed her eyes. “Seeing him like that brought it all back. I'm sorry.” She opened them, and once more they were hard. Once more Natasha folded into the Black Widow. “The reason why the Winter Soldier warned me was because the Winter Soldier is James.” She licked her lips. “Sargent James Buchanan Barnes,” she added, in a whisper.

The top of the chair Nick was holding onto snapped. Even  _he_  knew what that name meant. Even he knew the implications there.

“How certain are you of this?” Nick asked, carefully.

“One hundred percent,” Natasha said. She had no proof, no sign that he  _wasn't_  Bucky Barnes. The only thing Natasha knew was how utterly broken he was at remembering even that much about himself. The strong, nameless man who taught her, who  _broke_  her down and made her strong, who  _loved_  her, had never looked so utterly destroyed as he had in that moment. That was the only proof she had, and for Natasha, that was enough.

* * *

Bucky had planned to spend the whole day running through his list of weapons and what he would need, what he might need, and what was honestly just superfluous at this time. The sheer amount of destructive power he had nestled into two duffel bags really brought home the whole 'blunt force instrument' ideal that HYDRA had been going for when they first unmade him. It left him breathless at that fact that he even  _knew_  how to handle this varied a set of weaponry.

The whole day of running through his list turned into instead several hours of running his hands over each weapon, feeling,  _remembering._  More than once he had to stop himself from flinging a gun aside in favor of racing to the bathroom as a particularly vicious series of images bombarded him. Bucky Barnes had not been  _queasy_  by any sense of the word, but even some of what he did churned his stomach in ways he couldn't yet understand.

For a while Bucky longed to slip back into just being the Soldier, to not remembering bits and pieces of what he'd done, what had been done  _to_  him. For a while Bucky wanted the silence and the cold, to allow the fire to burn through his mind and cleanse him, wipe him back into that blank state. He gave up cataloging the munitions he had and instead turned on the television. He found the 'Real Housewives of New York' and lost himself into the monotony of it.

Bucky spent a good chunk of the day just watching episode after another, pleased to have discovered that there was some sort of marathon running as people talked about something called a season finale. It was only when the knock came at his door, followed by a slip of paper pushed through the small gap between door and floor, that Bucky even stopped watching the show in the first place.

Cautiously, because it could be a sick and twisted game his masters were choosing to play, now that they  _knew_ , Bucky approached the door and picked up the slip of paper. He unfolded it and expelled the breath he was holding.

“Natalia....” Bucky groaned, pressing his back into the door and sliding down until he was seated on the ground. He thunked his head back. “This was not what I meant.”

There was a light rap against the door next to his head.

“We can fix this,” Natalia said back, and Bucky could imagine her fingers pressed lightly right by his cheek, by his ear. “James, trust me.”

“It won't work,” Bucky said, staring down at the paper. His hand shook. “It won't work.”

“We'll  _make_  it work.”

Bucky closed his eyes.  _It won't work,_  he said in his mind.  _It won't and when you realize that..._ He wanted to save her some of the pain that would come from this. To get out, to  _leave._  Bucky bit his lip.

“We'll do it your way,” he said, voice thick with emotion. He couldn't tell her no. He could  _never_  tell her no.

“Thank you James,” Natalia whispered, and then she was gone. He  _knew_  she was gone because if she stayed, for even a second, Bucky wasn't sure what he would do.

The Soldier got to his feet. He looked down at the note, face blank, and memorized the information. He looked up, strode over towards his pile of weapons laid out on the table, chair, dresser and in front of the television. The Soldier pulled open a drawer and tugged free a lighter, the only lighter he had in his possession, and only because he nicked it out of a gas station just down the road. He lit the flame, and then held it over the letter which he clasped in his left hand. He watched the paper burn.

For the next twenty minutes he loaded, worked over, and checked each weapon he knew he'd most likely require to complete the mission. He set each aside on the table, and put the rest away. When that was done the Soldier began to arm himself. He slipped guns into hip holsters and thigh holsters, knives into their own holsters, grenades into his belt, anything and everything he would require.

The Soldier paused only after his pants were properly equipped to stare at the simple blouse that sat draped over the back of the chair. His hand reached out to palm the fabric.

“Steve...” he breathed out, closed his eyes, and with a pained frown he picked up the shirt and stuffed it into another duffel bag with the remainder of the weapons, including the pieces for his rifle. He grabbed his mask, his goggles, and his jacket.

The Soldier left the shitty motel room with the Real Housewives of New York playing on the television.

* * *

It was near two in the morning when he finally reached the apartment in DC. The Soldier shifted the duffel until it slung against his back and licked his lips underneath the bandanna he'd wrapped tight around the lower end of his face. The air was cold, it bit against his skin, made the scaring where metal became flesh almost burn something unholy. He didn't have a shirt on because it felt  _wrong_  to wear anything that wasn't his. Even the bandanna felt  _wrong_. The Soldier didn't like to contemplate the wrongness more than he had to.

Flesh and blood fingers wrapped around the metal grating. They took all of his weight, pulled him up one handed. His metal and ice arm reached up for the scaffolding above him and did the rest of the work. Silent aside from forced even breaths and the sound of metal moving the Soldier climbed up the landings until he was outside the one window he couldn't seem to avoid. With careful, gentle movements the Soldier pried the window open and slipped inside. He dropped the duffel bag by the window, left it open for an easy escape route, and headed back towards the bathroom.

The leather and kevlar top was not there.

Bucky swallowed. He knew logically he shouldn't have expected Steve to have just left it  _there_  where he'd dropped it, half out of his head, but  _damn_  did it throw a wrench into everything. The Soldier wanted to complete the mission, just get it done with. Наталья had given him an out, a plan that while he knew it would go tits up, he couldn't fault her for  _trying._  He had a place to be, memorized on the back of his eyelids, and a shot to fire, a man to kill. He couldn't afford to lose it now, here, in this place where everything and anything was  _Steve._

Bucky still didn't understand what Steve even was to him. He couldn't remember the past aside from fleeting glances and images, aside from emotions and sounds he couldn't place, aside from a pain and a coldness he wanted to be rid of once and for all. The Soldier swallowed and closed his eyes. He forced his breath to even, to calm. There was nothing for it, he'd have to  _ask Steve himself_  then.

Logic dictated that Steve would be in the bedroom. Bucky gripped his pants leg with his flesh and blood fingers to stop them from trembling. The Soldier remembered what the room had done to him, three times now. Remembered the portrait, the urge to do something he didn't understand. Bucky forced the even breaths this time and strode from the bathroom stiff backed.

As with before the room was dark. He could make out the shadows on the wall and Steve in the bed, lightly snoring as he slept unaware of his intruder. Bucky took a step, the Soldier took one back. He pressed his lips together, tugged his bottom between his teeth and clenched and unclenched his hand. The Soldier knew he should just walk over there and shake Steve awake. Bucky saw a man at peace, a face he hadn't seen so peaceful in such a long time. It stirred things, brought to mind things.

He stood at the edge of the bed, stared down at the face he couldn't remember but remembered all the same. His flesh and blood hand shifted and hovered over perfect cheeks. His jaw trembled and he had to swallow, heavily, to clear his throat from what felt like a grenade being lodged inside of it. Beyond his control he fell to his knees, his metal hand came up and tugged the bandanna down.

_Fool._  He was such a fool. Bucky breathed out.

“You goddamn  _punk,_ ” he hissed between his teeth. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Steve's lips. His cheeks felt wet.

_These were tears._  The Soldier didn't understand how tears could come over  _this._

_He's just a man._

_But he's not, is he? He's Steve._

That was it. That was the crux of the matter at heart. He was  _Steve_  and, perhaps, that was all that mattered in the end. Not the memories, just this torrent of emotions that being Steve brought him.

Bucky didn't know when it happened, but suddenly the press of lips was something else. There was a hand in his hair, gentle but insistent, a tongue teasing his mouth open as a face pressed closer, harder, more demanding but at the same time just  _not._  Then the pressure was gone and Bucky was opening his eyes  _(when did I close them?)_  and he could see Steve's face there, tears trailing down his own cheeks, eyes clenched shut.

“Bucky,” he breathed out and Bucky jerked back. He tumbled onto his ass, hands pressed out to stop him falling onto his back as well and quickly he turned his face away.

“I'm  _not,_ ” Bucky said, throat tight. He could tell exactly when Steve opened his eyes because Steve's breath changed, hitched in a way that was telling all on its own.

There was silence between them. It was awkward. Eventually Steve sat up, Bucky could tell because he could hear the shift on the bed until bare feet press down onto the carpet. He could hear Steve's hands sliding through his hair, a nervous sort of habit that the other man had though he didn't know how he knew that.

“Why did you,” Steve started, then stopped. Bucky could see him grimace in his minds eye.

“I don't know,” Bucky said back. He didn't, it was an honest answer. “It was a lack of impulse control.”

Steve laughed, although it seemed bitter. “That was more than just a lack of impulse control,” he said wryly. Bucky could practically feel the gaze on him and he hunched his shoulders, tried to bury his face so that Steve couldn't see it.

He didn't want Steve to see this thing, this fake thing parading around in skin that wasn't his, shouldn't be his. He didn't want Steve to  _know_  the depths in which he'd forgotten and become something inhuman. He didn't want Steve to see a familiar face on a machine that soon enough wouldn't even remember his own name. He felt like an imposter in his own skin.

_I don't want to lose this._

_I'm going to anyway._

Bucky swallowed. “I don't,” he started, stopped, and closed his eyes for a brief second.

“You're attracted to me,” Steve said instead, cutting off whatever train of thought Bucky might have had. The Soldier stiffened. “Fuck, Natasha was right wasn't she?”

Bucky had to work his jaw with no sound for a moment before he said, hoarsely, "Да," because it was true. He could hear Steve groan and practically fold in half. He could hear a muttered, “Shit,” of surprise.

Bucky felt like he was dying. He felt like he couldn't get any air in his lungs, that he couldn't breath or even think. There wasn't a fire in his mind, a pain throughout his limbs, a phantom ache where his flesh became metal. This wasn't like torture of any sort he could remember enduring, not like the taste of Rumlow on his lips. This felt more like the memory of Natasha fighting for him, screaming for him, the pain he felt when they grabbed her and hissed words into her ear that made her go deadly still.

This had been a bad  _(your takin all the stupid with you)_  stupid idea. Bucky got to his feet swiftly and started for the door without a word. He couldn't stay here. He had a job to to do. The Soldier stiffened and then relaxed and his mind went blank with the thought of the mission.

At least until Steve asked, “How many times?” and the Soldier froze.

“Just once,” he replied, his hand clenched into fist.

“Why?” Steve asked, and Bucky could feel that gaze at his back. Could feel  _something_  and he knew  _something_ but he couldn't place what.

He licked his lips.

“Two days ago my handlers did,” Bucky paused, “did something that broke, broke a piece away that'd been breaking for a while.”

“Since when?” Steve leaned back.

“The Lumarian Star,” Bucky said, bit his lip, added, “Seeing you. In that get up. It did something.” Steve was silent, but Bucky wasn't. “I couldn't get it out of my head,” he continued. “Star Spangled Man With A Plan,” he muttered, “dressed in red white and blue. A skinny little  _punk_  from Brooklyn. Everything being wrong and. I began to  _want_  things. I began to  _think._  It hurt and I. Something was broken, wrong. A malfunction. I was supposed to report those, to get them fixed, but I didn't, I  _couldn't_  because something wasn't  _right._ ”

Steve got up and walked towards him. He could hear the footsteps.

“Because you kept pervading everything,” Bucky continued. “You kept making these things  _happen_  and I had no idea why. I had to know  _why._ ”

Steve stopped behind him. He asked, “What did you call me?” There was something in his voice, something that made the Soldier want to run, made Bucky want to cry. When Bucky didn't answer, Steve said, “You called me a punk.”

“Words slip out and I don't know their meaning,” Bucky said. It sounded like an excuse.

“What's your name?” Steve asked.

“I don't have one,” Bucky said back quickly.

“Your lying.” Steve stood close enough that Bucky could feel the soldier's breath against the back of his neck. “Why.”

“You don't want to know that answer,” Bucky said.

“I do. Tell me,” Steve said sharply.

“No,” Bucky said through gritted teeth. He felt his lips curl up into a snarl, his hands clenched into fists.

“Why not,” Steve demanded, voice turning towards a growl.

Bucky whirled around without conscious thought and practically screamed, “ _Because I refuse to be the one that finally breaks you!_ ” A second later he seemed to realize just what he'd done exactly as his eyes snapped open wide and his face went pale.

Steve looked like he'd seen a ghost. “Bucky?” he asked.

It took exactly one second before Bucky bolted, stringing curses in his head. Steve didn't let him get even as far as the bedroom door before he tackled Bucky to the ground. Bucky quickly bucked up, tried to get Steve off of him as he twisted around. Steve jammed his knee over the metal prosthetic and then trapped it beneath his thigh as one hand wrapped fingers around Bucky's neck and the other around Bucky's wrist, pinning it down just as effectively.

Bucky tried to buck up, to toss Steve from him but Steve held his ground until they were both staring at one another, panting. The hand around Bucky's neck traced the length of Bucky's jaw.

“Oh god, Buck,” Steve muttered, as if he couldn't believe it. The next second they were in a kiss full of teeth and hot breaths. Bucky didn't even try to struggle. He couldn't. This was what he had  _wanted_  and  _fuck why did he even try to deny himself this?_  He'd forgotten perfection, he'd forgotten what home felt and tasted like.

Bucky could remember others, but they weren't right. It wasn't  _right_  like this. Natalia had been, could have been, but HYDRA stole her from him like they were going to steal  _Steve_  and yet Bucky couldn't care. He could feel a mouth on his needing, insistent. Tongue pressed past his lips as teeth clashed. He could feel when Steve shifted from kissing him to nipping at his jaw, could feel when the shift happened between getting the hell out and deciding why not just stay.

He bucked up, this time Steve let him, and shifted them both until Steve was laying flat on his back and he was on top, pressing down, kissing and nipping and biting. Bucky could taste the euphoria on Steve's lips, in his skin. He knew, logically, this was perhaps the worst idea he'd ever entertained. Steve wasn't in his right mind, Bucky knew he sure as hell wasn't in his own right mind given everything that had happened and everything he remembered and everything he  _didn't._

Steve's hands wrapped into his hair, he breathed, “Bucky,” on his lips. Bucky felt a thrill, a jolt of something down his spine that coiled in his gut. It was familiar, but distant. It reminded him of Наталья and Natalia reminded him of Steve which reminded him of this whatever  _this_  had been or is going to be. They didn't do anything more than touch and kiss and grasp, and then grind down and press against one another. They didn't do anything further but this because this was perfect all on its own.

Steve tensed up underneath him, and Bucky pressed his face into Steve's neck with a shuddered breath. When Steve tried to pull his face out of his neck, whispered another breathless, “Bucky,” Bucky jerked and then scrambled off and away from Steve with wide eyes. He curled his hands into his hair and drew his knees up towards his face, he tried to ignore the way his pants felt now, the way everything felt now, and focused on evening his breaths out.

“Bucky?” Steve sat up. He sounded concerned. Bucky wanted to laugh.

He didn't. Instead he took a deep shuddering breath and said, “I need my armor.” He pulled himself up. He couldn't acknowledge  _this_  because tomorrow or the day after, depending upon when Rumlow got fed up enough with waiting, Bucky would be back in HYDRA's hands and they'd break him more soundly then he'd ever been broken.

This was  _Steve._  Of course they'd break Bucky more soundly for  _this._

“What?” Steve's brow furrowed. He was confused, Bucky could understand. Bucky was confused too.

“My top. The one I left,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “I need it.”

“It's in the closet,” Steve said. Bucky strode over to the closet and yanked the door open. There, hanging up with Steve's shirts, was his armor. He quickly pulled it off of the hanger and began to strap it in place without a thought.

“Buck,” Steve said slowly. Bucky wondered if just because Steve realized who he  _was_  that meant anything was truly different between them. Bucky swallowed, closed his eyes, and uttered a sharp curse in Russian.

Bucky swallowed. “My orders changed.” Steve froze. “I can't delay completing my mission.”

“You don't have to do this,” Steve said. “Let me  _help_  you.”

Bucky pressed his head against the wall. “You don't understand,” he said, because Steve didn't. He breathed, “Вы имеете в виду для меня все и я не знаю, почему. Не дай мне разорвать вас. Моя прекрасная моя голубь,” to Steve's confusion.

Bucky pushed away from the wall and walked out of the bedroom. Steve followed on his heels, lips pressed together. By the time they reached the window Steve reached out and grasped Bucky's wrist.

“I won't let you kill him, Buck,” Steve said.

“Good,” Bucky said. “I won't stop until its done.”

“You don't have to do this,” Steve growled.

“I do,” Bucky said back. “You'll see.”

Bucky wrenched his wrist free, bent down, grasped his duffel bag and slipped out of the window. A part of him felt relieved that Steve just let him go, another felt sick. Steve should have stopped them. If he didn't bear Bucky Barnes' face Steve would have stopped him. The Soldier squared his jaw. This had been a mistake, and it would soon be one he didn't remember.

* * *

It happened as Fury got out of the car. They'd planned it like that, planned for it to be in one of the most public places so that HYDRA couldn't doubt its validity. They chose Stark Tower, now only known by the brilliant A at the top and, among SHIELD, known as Avengers Tower instead. In the official databanks Fury came here for a meeting with Stark, although what was listed 'classified' that not even the Word Security Council could know the truth.  
  
The truth, of course, was that this had been a planned place for the Winter Soldier to ambush Nick Fury, complete his mission, and then allow for Fury and his entourage to regroup. They already had the beginnings of a plan in play for dealing with the Helicarriers, they just needed one last bit of information to complete it. The information apparently resided in Camp Leheigh. By the time Nick stepped out of the car, by the time the shots were fired—three rounds through the chest, dangerously close to perforating his heart, collapsing at least one lung—Natasha would be on her way to round up Rogers.  
  
Up on the building across from the Tower the Soldier watched as his rounds made their mark. At the insistence of Наталья the Soldier purposefully made certain that his shots would not be immediately fatal. His target  _could_  be saved, it was within the realm of possibility, but without immediate medical attention such a thing happening was highly unlikely. The loud echo of the bullets being fired in the city air drew attention, was it was meant to, and from inside the Tower burst out Stark and subject: Hawkeye.  
  
The Soldier watched them for a moment, cataloged their movements, and then slipped away, unseen, as he planned to. He had one more day.  
  
Bucky licked his lips. One more day.

* * *

  
It didn't take much to corral Steve into the van. The words, “Stark got something off of the drive. We need to visit Camp Lehigh,” worked like a miracle. Before Steve even realized it he'd slipped into the drivers seat of the truck, turned the ignition, and started them down the road. Natasha had her phone GPS set to direct them. Steve knew a trip like this would take roughly six hours there and then back. They'd left at noon.  
  
It was only when they were two hours out of Camp Lehigh that Steve realized leaving DC right now probably wasn't the best idea.  
  
“We have to turn around,” Steve said, fingers tightening on the steering wheel of the truck. He kept driving straight.  
  
“It's under control,” Natasha said, feet on the dash as she looked out the window. She liked watching the scenery pass them by. It was soothing. Steve glanced at her.  
  
“You knew?” he asked, lips pressed thin.  
  
“Depends on what you think I know,” Natasha gave him a smile. It was both parts self-depreciating and smug. “Despite common opinion, I don't know everything.”  
  
“That Bucky--” Steve started and then had to cut himself off with a sharp breath. Natasha looked back outside.  
  
“He told you,” she said. There had been something to her tone, something different. Natasha was always the hardest to read out of anyone, and Steve found this moment no surprise.  
  
“How long did you know?” Steve questioned. The steering wheel creaked ominously.  
  
Natasha breathed out, said, “I didn't. You confirmed it.” Steve scowled and Natasha rolled her eyes. “Fine, you want the whole story Rogers?”  
  
“I would prefer honesty, yes,” Steve pointed out. “Although I'll take whatever you can give me right now. I still think we should be back in DC.”  
  
“Nick will be fine,” Natasha said and Steve relaxed minutely. “James came to me two days ago.” Steve nearly slammed on the breaks in surprise and Natasha glanced out at him through the corner of her eye. “Yes, I said James. I find it hard to reconcile the man I know with the name Bucky.”  
  
Steve's eyes shuddered closed for a second, and then they snapped open with a sudden surge of adrenaline. He kept his gaze focused out on the road, muttered a short, “Feet off the dash,” to try and ground himself.  
  
Natasha slipped her feet off with a roll of her eyes. She sat up. “Yes, I knew him. It's hard not to know the man that made me, and on that note that is all I'm giving you.” Steve opened his mouth and Natasha said wearily, “I'm not ready for more yet. I'm still reeling from seeing him like that again.”  
  
Her words slid home some of what Bucky had told Steve last night. It made a sick and twisted sort of sense. He said, “They took it away from him, didn't they.”  
  
Natasha nodded. “That's what they do,” she said. “They take away the things that matter to him.”  
  
Steve licked his lips. “Not this time.”  
  
Natasha smiled. “No. Not this time.”  
  
“Tell me about this plan,” Steve said, fully relaxing back into the seat. Natasha's lips quirked faintly. She shared a glance with Steve, could read the steel in his eyes. With him here, Natasha felt like they just might actually save Bucky Barnes.

* * *

  
After his mission was accomplished Bucky didn't report it. He should have, he could feel the thoughts whirling in the back of his mind, screaming at him to  _отчет_. He ignored it. Instead Bucky headed back to the shitty hotel where the television screen was on playing some sort of show he didn't know. Bucky didn't care. He dismantled and cleaned his weaponry before slipping each with precise care into his bag.  
  
Then the Soldier went around the room and removed all traces of his presence from it. He washed out the trash can of ash, he tore the bedsheets off of the bed and piled them into a corner where he meticulously removed each hair he could find. He demolished the pillows, overturned the drawer, did everything in order to erase any sign of his existence. Once that had been done he gathered up his duffel bags and slung them over his shoulders and made his way out of the room.  
  
At reception Bucky dug into his pants. He fished out six hundred that he'd cobbled together on his way back from New York to DC and then handed it over to the man silently. Once he'd taken the money and stuffed it away, Bucky pulled out one of his many knives kept along his waistline and slammed it through the man's skull with his left hand.  
  
The Soldier stared dispassionately down. Bucky said, “I'm sorry,” as he vaulted the counter and knelt down to remove his knife. He cleaned it on the mans pant-leg and then slipped it back into place. With his left hand he reached out and pulled the receptionists eyelids down. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, voice turning into a broken whisper.  
  
 _Скрывать_ , his mind whispered,  _убивать_. It was why he reacted without even realizing what he'd done until it was far too late to take it back. The Soldier straightened out, leaped over the receptionist desk, and left the dead man behind as he slipped out of the door.  
  
Bucky wasn't going to turn in, he wasn't going to meet at the rendezvous point because he wanted that one last day. The Soldier thought of Наталия, thought of how he could make her go silent with two words and a smile ( _must never forget that smile, it always made her so weak in the knees, putty in my hands_ ) and he couldn't risk that. He couldn't risk HYDRA deciding that they wanted the Red Room's precious commodity, Dreykof's Daughter, the one who survived his training and unmaking and became  _the Widow._  
  
Bucky couldn't lose Natalia again.  
  
 _(she wasn't his to lose anymore)_  
  
With a breath, slow, steadying, Bucky took to the streets and back alleys and corners. He traveled on foot, heaving his weapons cache on each shoulder. He avoided the main roads, avoided the patrolled streets, avoided the need to unleash more death upon the world around him. He couldn't handle killing another soul like the receptionist. The Soldier wasn't made to kill anymore, he was too broken and in need of repairs, perhaps more repairs than HYDRA could perform.  
  
Bucky traveled until he reached Steve's apartment, climbed the fire escape and eased open the window. He dropped the duffel bags in front of the window as he slid it shut, slipped down the hallway and into the bathroom. There Bucky cleaned his hands and scrubbed his face and scraped dried blood off of his leather and kevlar top. When he was clean and no longer visibly marked ( _but always marked beneath his skin, dripping, gushing, bleeding and broken with the lives he'd taken under his hands, out of his control_ ) he dried himself off and moved from the bathroom to the bedroom. Bucky trailed his fingers along the walls and willed himself to remember.  
  
 _(I can't I can't I can't I can't I can't)_  
  
He rifled through Steve's closet, looked at his drawings and portraits, even found a journal. The Soldier knew that Steve remembered him, remembered something he seemed to have lost. Bucky knew that Steve  _needed_ him and wanted to be as unbroken as he could. He wanted Steve, selfishly so and he knew it'd break him when Rumlow came to tear him away but Bucky couldn't help it. There was  _something—  
  
(I was in love)_  
  
—he couldn't leave behind, he couldn't forget or let go of. Eventually, with the bedroom strewn from paintings and sketches and clothing that Bucky and torn out from drawers and held up to his face, trying to evoke scent memory since nothing else appeared to be working, Bucky curled into Steves bed and dug his fingers into Steve's pillow. He felt tired, drained of everything.  
  
 _(I want to remember let me remember please)_  
  
Bucky drifted asleep.

* * *

  
They arrived at Camp Lehigh when it was dark. Steve broke the lock with his shield, lips pursed into a frown and together he and Natasha slipped inside the grounds. Natasha had some sort of device, probably Stark made Steve figured since it was Stark who sent them on this wild goose chase when Steve could be back in DC stopping Bucky from killing Nick.  
  
“Quit worrying about it,” Natasha said, holding the device up into the air and wandering around the camp. Steve stopped at the flag pole, he could remember the challenge his CO had issued his team.  
  
 _“First man to bring it to me get's to ride back with Agent Carter.”_  
  
“I have every right to worry,” Steve pointed out, turning around from the flag. “Anything?”  
  
Natasha lowered the device and shook her head with a sigh. “No. Whoever made the file probably used a router,” she said. “Stark led is in the wrong direction.” She hopped over the railing and started her way back towards the gate, only stopping when Steve didn't follow after her.  
  
“Steve?” Natasha asked, but Steve stared at the munitions bunker with a frown on his face. “You see something?”  
  
“Doesn't army regulations forbid storing munitions within five hundred feet of the barracks?” he asked. “That hasn't changed too, right?”  
  
“I think so, why?” Natasha turned to follow his gaze, her brow furrowed.  
  
“That building is in the wrong place,” Steve said. Together they jogged over, Steve breaking the lock again and pulling the door open with a grunt and a grimace. They stepped inside, the air stale from disuse, but Natasha was able to find a light switch and as the overheads crackled to life, surprisingly resilient despite the years of disuse, Steve categorized the room with a critical eye.  
  
“SSR?” he muttered. He couldn't remember an SSR bunker at Lehigh.  
  
“Early SHIELD,” Natasha didn't quite correct. Her own tone of voice suggested she wasn't sure if that were the case or not.  
  
“Probably one of the first,” Steve agreed, catching sight of the name emblazoned in the back of the room. Cautiously they fanned out, checking through files and computers that were set up. Natasha rifled through the drawers but anything of note had been long since removed.  
  
“These computers don't work,” she said. “They've been dismantled, probably to protect intel.”  
  
“Why would a drive that has ties to HYDRA lead  _here?_ ” Steve asked. They slipped from the main room to the meeting room, once more checking barren shelves and empty riling cabinets. Natasha looked to the photgraphs on the wall.  
  
“That's Stark,” she said, a little curious. “Whose the girl?” Steve glanced up, and then away. He followed the line of shelves instead of answering, which to Natasha meant that it was someone just as important as Stark which meant—  
  
“No way,” she said, a slight laugh tinging her tone. “That's Direct Carter?” Steve didn't say anything in response, lips pressed together tightly as he focused on finding some sort of sign as to why they were led here. There was a sound, he recognized it, felt the air flow and he searched out the space.  
  
“Natasha,” he called out, motioned her over. “when you already have a secret base...” he dug his fingers into the edge and pulled until he opened up the doorway, the hinges obviously rusted from disuse, “...why do you need to hide the elevator?”  
  
Natasha stared down the hall. “I don't know, Steve. Care to find out?” she gave him a grin.  
  
Steve did not expect what they would find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RUSSIAN I THINK?
> 
> 1\. Голубь – golub' – my dove  
> 2\. Наталья – Natal'i͡a – Natalia  
> 3\. Да – da – yes  
> 4\. Вы имеете в виду для меня все и я не знаю, почему. Не дай мне разорвать вас. Моя прекрасная моя голубь – Vy imeete v vidu dli͡a meni͡a vse i i͡a ne znai͡u, pochemu. Ne daĭ mne razorvat' vas. Moi͡a prekrasnai͡a moi͡a golub' – You mean everything to me and I do not know why. Do not let me break you. My beautiful my darling (You mean everything to me and I do not know why. Do not let me break you. My beautiful my dove)  
> 4\. отчет – otchet – report  
> 5\. Скрывать – Skryvat' – hide  
> 6\. убивать – ubivat' – kill

**Author's Note:**

> THERE MAY OR MAY NOT BE AN ISSUE WITH THE TITLE OF THIS STORY. PLEASE TELL ME WHAT IS APPROPRIATE. IS IT голубь? OR голубka? SERIOUSLY. I'M CONFUSED.
> 
> IF YOU KNOW RUSSIAN AND ARE WILLING TO HELP A POOR, POOR, IGNORANT AMERICAN FIX HER SHITTY GOOGLE TRANSLATE NONSENSE, AND MAYBE PROVIDE HER WITH PLAUSIBLE RUSSIAN PET NAMES, YOU WILL BE FOREVER LOVED.
> 
> Thank you to SDCDCI for the help you've provided in the meantime.
> 
> SERIOUSLY. HELP.


End file.
